The White Hun
by Hydroxide
Summary: "And I beheld a wave of vengeance astride ten thousand horses, unstoppable as a storm. I witnessed the fall of one queen, her magic shattered and broken, and I watched as her sister joined her in the union of death. And then I beheld that shining city of Arendelle by the bright sea, falling at last in fire and ash. As Eternal Tengri is my witness, these words are true..."
1. Chapter 1: Your sins will find you out

**After six years, it begins again. We're going back to Arendelle.**

**Frozen 2 opened up many themes and questions that may or may not have been satisfactorily resolved. While some may be divided over the quality of the writing, no one can doubt that the sequel explores many mature themes and ventures into darker territory than its predecessor. And there is no question that the fantastic animation and the brilliant voice work all deserve acclaim.**

**As usual, I am never a fan of the happy ever after.**

**Here is my attempt at exploring some of the darker themes opened up in the movie, my humble effort to tease the demons out of Pandora's box.**

**Here is the tale of The White Hun.**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Your sins will find you out**

* * *

**Arendelle's Theme: _Vuelie_ (feat. Cantus) - Frozen OST**

* * *

The sun ascended from beyond the horizon, and in an instant the coverings of cloud and darkness shed themselves. Fierce yellow light scattered across the open water, as the smooth mirror of the fjord reflected the sun's glory heavenward.

A rider sped across the water. White hair billowing, trailing a dress of alabaster that no tailor could have emulated.

As the sun rose, Elsa's spirit soared with it. She never grew tired of it—that wordless voice of hope that swelled with each sunrise, dispelling the dark thoughts that lurked in the night.

Anna was waiting.

_I'm coming._

Beneath her, the Nokk reacted smoothly. Sapient water in the shape of a horse, its hoof-beats left no mark upon the fjord. Speeding across the water, sensing the anticipation of its rider to reach the glittering towers of the palace on the waterfront.

_Arendelle._

* * *

"Anna, it's good to see you too," Elsa breathed, cradling her sister's head in her embrace.

"Mm," murmured Anna, her face buried in Elsa's snow-white hair.

The sisters shared the moment in the dimness of the corridor. The rays of sunlight had not yet started to creep through the windows, and the air was cool and still heavy with the scent of night. Clutching each other for warmth, Elsa reveling in the faint smell of lavender, Anna wondering how someone able to control ice and snow could still feel so warm.

Neither of them wanted to let go first.

"Elsa?" Anna piped up. "What say we let go—together?"

And so they did.

"So…Anna." Elsa smiled, still holding her sister by both hands. "What did you want to show me?"

The younger sister's smile faded ever so slightly, and her voice dropped. "I was tidying up Father's things yesterday. I was thinking of all those things we didn't know about them all this time. How Father escaped the enchanted forest all those years ago. How Mother was Northuldra. What else didn't we know about them?"

She clasped her hands, and walked to the window. "I wanted to know more about our parents. And besides, now that I'm queen of Arendelle—" Anna giggled nervously—"it wouldn't hurt to find out more about the previous rulers, wouldn't it?"

Elsa walked forward, next to her sister. "So what did you find?"

Anna paused. Then, walked to the door of the study—the old chamber, where their Father once spent his time.

"It's better if I showed you."

* * *

The box was made of solid oak, reinforced with cast iron struts and inlaid with gold. Roughly a foot by two feet, it rested upon the old table in the study.

"I found this," Anna panted, still weary from the strain of lifting the box, "behind his desk. It was hidden in a small hole in the floor and covered with a panel."

Elsa's eyes turned to the splintered fragments of wood under the table. "Hidden? Then—how did you find it?"

"I—um—may have dropped a very heavy and totally-not-expensive limited-edition encyclopedia on the floor. By accident."

"By accident."

"Yep." Anna pursed her lips.

Elsa smirked. _Typical. _"So what's inside it?"

Anna looked at Elsa. "I don't know. But I wanted us to open it together. It—it belongs to our parents, after all."

Elsa stepped towards the box. The crest of Arendelle gleamed bright on its lid. And beneath it, two names were engraved side-by-side.

_Agnarr._

_Idunna._

Elsa drew breath, sharply. Then took her sister's hand.

Anna's eyes were wide, nervous, but as warm as they ever were. "We'll do this together."

Elsa grasped one handle on the lid. Anna grasped the other.

Then, as one, they lifted it.

For a long time, they stared at the contents of the box.

"Are those—" Anna breathed "—are those letters?"

Plain brown envelopes, stacked neatly side-by-side within the container. Protected from dampness and light, they still looked as crisp as they must have been when they were written.

"I don't get it. Why would our parents write letters, and then never send them? Who were they writing to?"

Elsa had picked up one of the envelopes. Scrawled in a corner was a date—eighteen years ago. His handwriting. Her _father_'s handwriting.

"Unless these aren't letters." Elsa's eyes narrowed.

"Look." Gently, Anna retrieved something else from within the box. Folded and embossed with their father's personal seal. And the words.

_To my dear daughters, Elsa and Anna._

_"_Papa," Elsa's lips parted. She met Anna's wide eyes.

With pale fingers, trembling but not from the cold, Elsa opened the letter.

_My daughters,_

_If you have found this, I hope that it is because you are ready. I hope—and pray—that you are reading this because I have finally gathered the courage to show this to you, and not that you have found it yourselves. Perhaps—by then, I would have found the words I need to explain everything in person._

_These are my thoughts, catalogued over the years. My confessions, if you will. I had started writing them in the hope that I could unload the burden on my heart with ink and pen, and yet found that not to be the case. Then with the years, I had continued writing in the hopes that someday—someday the wrongs would be righted. I will be indicted by my own words and my own pen one day, before the judgement of men and of Heaven. It would be the least that I deserve._

_My dear ones, whatever you may read, whatever you will come to learn—please remember that your mother and I love you. That will never change. And if there is any resentment, any judgement—your mother is innocent. The blame lies solely upon me, and upon the royal family to which I belong._

Elsa's hands could not stop shaking. Anna reached forward, gently holding her sister's wrist.

"What does he mean?" Anna whispered. "What is he talking about?"

Elsa continued to read, trying to stem the quaver in her voice.

_Your mother has secrets too, but those are hers to share, not mine. She will speak about them in time. Her secret is one of wonder, and of love. Mine stinks of shame and condemnation._

_Remember the story I used to tell you both, about how my father King Runeard built the dam for the Northuldra?_

_I never told you the full story._

_I never learned about it until I was a young man. And even then, I am ashamed to say that I did not speak out. That shame will haunt me until my dying day. What kind of king am I, a coward at heart? What kind of monarch allows such a wrong to go unchallenged, like a child hiding under the covers, hoping that the monster will leave him alone?_

_I had wanted to tell you the truth. And yet every time I see your faces—and that of your mother—words fail and my shame overwhelms. Perhaps inside, I had hoped that the great mist of the forest would swallow up everything in time._

"Papa…" Elsa whispered.

Anna said nothing. Only gripped her sister's wrist tighter. _Keep reading._

_We did not build the dam, not with our own hands. My father, King Runeard, envisioned the construction of that massive structure long before I learned to walk. Arendelle's people are strong and hardworking and full of spirit as they are, but even so, such a task would have been beyond their small numbers._

_I do not know how my father found them. Only that they had been brought by great ships to our shores by the thousands, and then put under the heels of our boots. Put to work to build my father's vision._

_The Great Dam was built by **slaves.**_

* * *

**Steppe Theme: "Kha-Khem" by Yat-Kha**

* * *

Every night, they lit the fire.

Old hatreds burned deep. Some of the oldest ones still had the memories. Of the holds of large treasure-ships of the North Dwellers, of starvation and thirst and biting cold. Of the terrors of the white ice and the rushing water dashing men to pieces as if they were dead wood.

Of the swords and axes of the Northerners, and the blood spilled along the river banks.

The shaman was blind in both eyes. Old as the trees, her wrinkled and liver-spotted face speaking of ancient wisdom and the ways of a land they would never again see. But her back too bore the scars of the oppressor, testifying that she had shared in the hardship of her people.

She stoked the fire with her cane.

A shriveled hand, clawed and arthritic, reached into a leather pouch around her waist. She flung the sand into the fire, feeling it sputter in reply.

"Remember, you children of the _Altan Uruk_. This is the sand upon which our blood was spilled."

The assembly murmured in response. The older ones closed their eyes. They remembered well, that Day of Falling Stones. The grief of their losses, the fear of impending death and the panicked flight into the mountains, the guilt and shame that they had survived while their kin had perished. Perished in one of the worst of deaths, lost to the deepest depths of the cold salt sea.

All they had, all they could gather of their grief, was the sand by the banks of the great river, stained red with their blood. Blood now dried and rotten into iron, yet heavy still with memory.

The same sand, now flung into the fire. Night after night, alongside the same invocation.

Perhaps the river remembered. But they needed more than just to remember. The burning coal within their hearts would not be sated by memory alone, but by vindication.

The shaman withdrew, now, the curved knife. Her fingers had lost none of their dexterity. Calmly, without flinching, she pulled the razor edge of the blade along her wrist. Droplets of anaemic blood dripped into the fire, staining the embers.

"Gurun, avenge us," she intoned.

"Gurun, avenge us," came the reply.

She continued to bleed, life's blood dripping into the fire. Her face concentrated in tradition, in memory, and in pure distilled hatred. As if she could distill vengeance and enmity into every drop, and fuel the reckoning upon the head of their foe.

Thirty five years had they been here, in this frozen wasteland where even the winds and spirits were against them. Some had been buried already beneath the snow, claimed by starvation or accident. Many had been born, who had known nothing else except this constant struggle against the wind and sky, battered by demons and spirits that set trees ablaze, flooded homes, and thundered through the night. Crops refused to take in the soil, and the treacherous spirits drove away the herds of reindeer.

Every night, she had performed the old rite. Her youth was gone, her back was hunched, her sight had withered. But her hatred had never dissipated.

Snow swallowed all, blanketing the grass and shrouding rocks and deadly pitfalls. High pillars of ice stood from the many rivers, waterfalls petrified by the winter that seemed to stretch for months and months at a time.

But in this land of forest and snow, the collective memory of the steppe peoples never diminished. Nor had they forgotten the ways of the old horse-lords of the east. Before the _Sveta Huna _followed the teachings of _Tengri_, they offered their prayers to an even older deity. One who, even now, they turned to in their time of strife.

Gurun, the lord of sand and desert. Gurun, greater than any of these Northern demons. Gurun, who answered the call of vengeance.

_Answer us._

The forest kept them trapped. Beyond a wall of evil power and unholy mist, where not even the great Khan of the Old Desert could hear them. Yet every night, she called out. She was the shaman; she spoke for the people. This was the way.

The sudden shock tore through the air, almost toppling her over. Around, she heard cries of alarm. The very temperature of the air changed. She could feel it—in her bones, in her joints.

The fire flared up like a plume.

Murmurs and whispers rippled around the gathered host. She silenced them with a single utterance.

"The veil has fallen. We are trapped no longer."

She raised her unseeing eyes to the sky, to _Tengri _above. And for the first time in forever, her lips peeled back in a toothless smile.

"Gurun can hear us now."

Slowly, at the fringes of the crowd, came shouts of assent. Then gathering volume and momentum, it spread through the great host. Cries and bellows, giving voice to joy, and vent to sorrow.

They were free.

_They were free._

The shaman tilted her head back, and cried to the open sky.

"Then, Gurun, hear our call, our thirst! Hear these thirty five years of suffering and starvation! Remember the hundred years even before, when our blood and sweat were shed, and repay it a hundredfold upon these the North Dwellers! By the sand and the blood, and by our cries for vengeance!"

"_Uukhai!_" Ten thousand voices answered her.

She raised a crooked finger to the sky, and then pointed unerringly south.

"Send from your desert, Great Khan, that Dagger which will pierce the heart of the North! Send that doom which will at last befall these accursed Northerners in their stone walls and high houses!"

"_Uukhai!_" Came the reply, thundering across the snow and the mountains. "_Uukhai! Uukhai!_"

The shaman closed her eyes, a smile across her features. All around her, swords were loosed from their sheaths and shaken at the sky—a herald of the coming storm of iron and blood.

It was only when morning came that they realized she was dead.

* * *

Elsa's voice had broken, at that very last word. The sound of that last syllable hung in the air, ugly, ringing. An indictment of Arendelle and everything around them.

_Slaves._

"No." Anna's voice was parched. "It can't be. This can't be true."

Elsa's mind swirled.

_Father was the kindest man I ever knew._

_He stood for strength and peace. He upheld the value of all life in his kingdom and put his people first._

_How—_

The parchment crinkled at the edges as her grip tightened, little flecks of ice beginning to form over the corrugations—no, _no, _she stopped herself in time, before she destroyed this letter, this one precious piece of her father.

This was father's legacy. These were his words.

She owed it to him, if not to Anna and herself, to go on. To understand.

Willing strength back into her voice, she continued.

* * *

_I had always been told, as a young boy on my father's lap, that sacrifices had to be made for the greater good._

_The men and women ferried to our shores in chains and rags, emptied from cargo ships, were from some faraway land, or so he told me. Criminals, thieves and murderers, offered up to us by their very own people. They were scarcely human, spoke almost no language we could comprehend, and had no semblance of culture. _

_We would take this pitiful people and put them to work on something great. It would be a privilege, a favour even, to these people. To offer purpose for their lives._

_Today, I would have opposed it immediately. I would have seen it for the barbarism it was, thinly disguised behind this veneer of civilization. But then—then I was but a boy. And so I smiled, and nodded, and swallowed this sickening lie. __I don't know how much my father paid the owners of that fleet of cavernous, ugly ships. But it pains my heart that somewhere out there, Arendellian coin hangs in the pouch of a slave trader._

_Now, these things are all forgotten. King Runeard is dead, the forest swallows up everything in mist, and I sit upon the throne. The Northuldra held no love for us, least of all for bringing such a large host of foreign and unwanted people to their lands. But these peoples are also gone—many dead, the rest lost. Lost, as certainly as the forest consumes all._

_I wonder sometimes. If I dread the day when the mist parts, and my sins are laid bare. I share in this shame. I am a part of it. Idunna would sometimes speak of a distant place of wonder, where all memory is found. I wonder—are my sins etched also in its annals? Preserved there, so that all may know of King Agnarr and his failure?_

_I can only hope to atone for it before my own life is over._

_Elsa, Anna—please, please my daughters. Read, and learn from my mistakes and my failures. If any remain—if there are any left of the poor and downtrodden people who suffered under Arendelle's yoke, seek them out. Show them kindness, show them compassion. Show them we are better. Show them—you are better than I was._

_Seek their forgiveness, if they would ever be willing to offer it._

_Just as I seek your forgiveness, though I will remain_

_Your undeserving father_

_Agnarr._


	2. Chapter 2: The Rising Sun

**Chapter 2: The Rising Sun**

* * *

**Arendelle Theme: "Do you want to build a snowman? - Instrumental" - Frozen OST**

* * *

They lingered in the study, long after the sun had begun its climb through the sky, bathing the palace in its warm light. Rows of neatly stacked books cast long shadows against the wall, while the chirping of songbirds outside mingled with the sound of Arendelle stirring to wakefulness.

Anna had made hot chocolate, two mugs of it. They lay on the table, steam wafting lazily upwards, alongside their father's letter.

The letter. Even now, the words were searing and hurtful, more so because they carried the ring of authenticity. There was no doubt about it—these were the words of King Agnarr, beloved by all of Arendelle, a cherished memory whose likeness was borne on a statue in the city square.

"I can't believe it." Anna cupped the mug in her hands. "Even after you've read it twice."

"Everything we knew about father—about our parents—" Elsa's hair fell over her shoulders like a sheet of white snow, her icy gown glittering in the sunlight.

"They've kept secrets before." Anna sipped on her drink. "Like you. Or mother being Northuldra—"

"Or the fact that she saved father from the forest," Elsa finished.

"Or that they were traveling to seek the source of your power—"

"Or that they knew the trolls—"

"Or that—Elsa, this is getting to be a long list." Anna pursed her lips, stained with chocolate.

She took a deep breath, as her slender fingers intertwined with her sister's. "We may have—well, we might just have to accept this as another secret. Maybe father would have told us about it. If he had—if he hadn't—"

She stopped, biting her lip. Elsa choked back a silent sob, her head bowed, a hand folded under her chin like a flower closing its petals. The hurt was there—tempered by the years—but the loss still stung.

"Slaves. Our kingdom used _slaves_ to build the dam." Elsa used the word forcefully. "I always knew King Runeard was a terrible, distrustful, and cruel man, but _this—_"

"And Papa knew about it." Anna's fist clenched, as she stared at the letter. "Even as a boy, even before that day when they entered the forest—he knew about what was going on."

Elsa sighed, closing her eyes. "It's like every time we think we know Papa and Mama—we turn another corner, another page, and then suddenly we realise there was more that we didn't know. Or want to know."

Their eyes drifted to the wall. The portrait hung above the study, like a watchful guardian. King Agnarr and Queen Idunna, at the prime of their lives, looking down upon the two sisters with the same warm smile that greeted their mornings and tucked them into bed at night.

"We owe it to Papa—to both of them—to find out the truth." Elsa uncurled her fingers. "It's what he would have wanted. It's in his writings, his _confessions_. Somewhere there is the answer."

Anna turned to look at the box. Laden with brown envelopes, nearly filled to bursting.

"Well," she said quietly, "it's a good thing we've got all of today."

* * *

**Steppe Theme: "The Rising Sun" by Hanggai**

* * *

"_Uragshaa!_" The cry sounded across the snowy plain like the crack of a whip.

Dark shapes charged out of the cover of the forest. Spittle flying from horses' lips, gleaming eyes under furred hoods, leather boots pressed tightly against stirrups. In the near-light, they appeared as shade-spirits of the underworld.

Their prey were startled already—subterfuge was now useless. Now for speed, and the swiftness of the kill.

The reindeer herd ran, furred hooves thudding in the snow, whinnying in their guttural accents as they began their panicked flight—late, too late.

The snow-horses were slower than their steppe counterparts—and none could rival the heaven-horses of _Erqin_—but had excellent stamina and were well-suited to the cold. Their pace was sufficient for the fluidity of the unique Hunnish way of hunting—and of warfare.

The Blue Talon advanced at a gallop. The distance closed.

The musk of reindeer was close enough to smell. Mixed, also, with a faint acidic pungency; in panicked flight, like all animals, some reindeer had urinated.

"_Baruun!_"

One flank peeled away, to cut off the reindeer at the forest edge.

The devil-spirits of the Forest were malicious. Wind and fire drove away reindeer from hunters lying in wait, blowing the scent of men downwind towards their prey. Water devils churned the rivers and drove away fish so that nets came up empty. Dozens had starved in the winter before the steppe peoples abandoned all attempts at the traditional stealthy ways of hunting.

Now the strategy was simple. Ambush, and ride them down. Ride down the reindeer, as they had once ridden down the armies of Rome, or China, or Persia.

"_Uukhai!_" A command, a war cry, a prayer.

Arrows were loosed, from powerful recurve bows with limbs of yew and cured with glue of reindeer fat. Soaring like hawks in the cold air, with only the faintest whistle across their feathered tails.

Reindeer fell. Collapsing in the snow, knees crumpling in weakness with agonized cries. Deadly missiles found their mark in throats and between ribs, killing almost instantly.

Now they broke formation. Fanning out, like an open net, more arrows being loosed. The horses may not have been able to match the reindeer in stamina, but in the short bursts of speed, they could hold their own.

More reindeer fell.

And then the hunt was over. Forty riders, and about forty reindeer. The remainder had fled into the safety of the forest. The huntsmen would give no chase—survivors were needed to replenish the herd.

Some of the youngest hunters dismounted, knives in hand. A few of the reindeer had yet to be claimed by death. Some whinnied quietly, some keened with open bloodied throats.

Qorchi exhaled. It had been a good hunt. The Blue Talon was one of the four major hunting parties of the horde, and arguably the fastest and most experienced of the four. Small wonder, given that the oldest riders were rugged veterans of the Eurasian steppes, having once hunted men instead of deer.

Still, men grew old. Younger men were needed to replace them, and to take on their skills before they were claimed by age or accident. Half their party today had consisted of fresh-faced boys—enthusiastic, brash and inexperienced—but they did not disappoint. Not today.

Qorchi looked down from his mount as a young man approached a reindeer, long-knife in hand. "Good shooting today, Chagan. But you loosed too soon, before your horse reached the peak of its gallop. Your arrow flew well, but you pierced its lung instead of its heart."

The elder nomad looked down with some amusement, as the youth attempted to circle around the panicked, dying reindeer as it lashed out with powerful kicks, antlers carving trenches in the snow. "Had your aim been more stable, you may have killed it instantly. Spared it these moments of agony—and you, these moments of inconvenience."

Chagan had at last reached the back of the beast. Swiftly, with one hand on its throat, he plunged the knife into the reindeer's cervical spine. Its knees kicked out feebly a last time, and then its eyes grew glossy.

"My apologies, elder Qorchi." Chagan offered a nod of respect as he began to skin his kill. "This is but my third hunt. I will improve."

"See to it that you do." Qorchi's admonishment was free of any judgement or bitterness. Simply—fact. The North was harsh. Nomads would improve, or they would die.

As Chagan began to cut up his kill, Qorchi winced. The stinging ache in his right shoulder was acting up again, and he felt the tinging spread down to his fingers. A Northerner taskmaster had struck him hard enough to split bone, so many years ago, and the bone and joint had never quite healed right. There would come a time, soon, when he would be useless with the bow.

The older nomad looked down at the youth, now making his messy but forceful incision down the fallen creature's belly to disembowel it. The future lay, he thought, with the young ones such as Chagan. To carry on the traditions and become the strength of the horde, without which they would all perish.

All around, like Chagan, the hunters were beginning the grisly but necessary process of skinning and carving up their spoils.

The sun was rising.

Somewhere, someone had started up an old song. A ragged, old throat, crooning the words to the open sky—

**_Mandaž gardag naran šingenee_**

**_Manantaigaa hojoulaa hȯ…_**

Younger voices joined in. An off-tone chorus of hope and promise amidst a realm of cruelty and hardship. Untamed brash throats singing of the promise of dawn, and the sun.

Singing, as they rent meat from bone and skin from flesh. The old ways, as it was in the times of the Xiongnu, when the Hunnu were glorious and free, not hemmed in and imprisoned in the accursed forest like frightened sheep.

**_Martagdašgu̇i gurvan žil bolson bolov čig_**

**_Mansuurah noirondoo hojoulaa hȯ_**

Qorchi closed his eyes, and afforded himself a smile. The day was long; hardships lay ahead. Five of his kinsmen had died during the night—two claimed by age, three by sickness—and must be buried. But in the now—the now—he knew that the ways of the tribe would survive.

"Qorchi!" A call rang out. One of the foremost scouts, standing at the edge of a precipice. "Come and see this!"

The elder horseman's smile was gone in a flash. Striding forward, his bow in hand, he approached.

He could hear the running water, rough and churning, before he reached the edge. The small cliff stood over the great river, and its roar filled his ears. But he was unprepared for what met his eyes.

For some time he lingered, taking in the sight. His form remaining still, his lips tight.

"_Tengri_ above," he spoke at last. "The Great Dam is gone."

* * *

_Father and I were at the docks today, when the first ships arrived. Great merchants of the far south, trading at many ports all around the world. Great sandy deserts, lush jungles, beautiful shores, magnificent cities! I could only imagine what it would be like to sail the world like they do._

_The people who came down from those ships, though, I didn't like._

_Father said that they had been brought by these merchants to work at our kingdom. They had done evil things in their own lands, and had been caught by their own people and given up to us. I didn't like the way they looked. Fierce and rough, with narrow eyes that looked like they wanted nothing more than to kill you! They glared, at me and my father, as they marched down the docks, their hands bound by strong rope (thankfully)._

_I was afraid. I didn't want to show it. I'm old enough to have my own sword, and I can almost swing it too! But these people scared me. Times like these, I'm glad for father. He's always strong and with a face like stone. Nothing can scare him, I imagine._

_I think we are doing a good thing here. We are giving these criminals work, giving them something to do besides killing and stealing in whatever land they came from. Yesterday I saw father's design for the dam. It would be huge! It would change the shape of the northern region for good, opening up so much more land for farming. I hope that this helps make us friends with the __Northuldra_ _like father always wanted._

_Still, I can't help but wonder about these new people. With their angry-looking faces and thick beards. I've heard from my tutors that wars are fought all the time, in the East and South, great and terrible wars stretching for years and years. I can imagine that these people were a part of those wars, never knowing an end to the conflict._

_I hope they find peace here._

* * *

When the Mist fell and the winter seized the land, the spirits turned against the people of the steppes.

In those dark years, where _Tengri _turned his eyes away from the land and the light grew dim, many were laid to rest in the soil. The demons of the north—of air, water, earth, and fire—tormented mothers with the false promise of life. Life, ended many moons short, a promise aborted by spots of blood and the passage of a not-life wrapped in rags. Or others, carried to the fullness of term to only end in pallor and stillness on the floor of a tent, the wind spirit withholding from them the breath of life.

Her name was Tabin, for she was the fiftieth child to survive the passage from the womb into the Mist.

Keen, watching, she crouched on the high outcropping like a leopard. Her black hair was tied back in a topknot, a testament to the remnant of the Hunnic roots of her people.

Above, a falcon soared in wide circles, wingtips trembling.

Below him, the white water raged over scarred rock. The remnants of a stone arch lay half-submerged, split lengthwise as if broken over the knee of a giant. Where stone once stood strong—now there was nothing. Emptiness, the work of man swallowed up by nature.

"So the dam has been destroyed." Tabin adjusts her footing on the snowy stone. "As if it never was."

"That must have been the shock that we felt, two days ago." Her companion was a short, heavy-set man, a wild-looking Bulgar named Dako. "The dam fell—"

"—and the Mist lifted," Tabin finished. "But _why_?"

"These northern spirits are fickle and cruel." Dako shrugged. "Who knows what they want, or what they mean to do?"

Dako peered at the riverbed, straining to find the traces of any of the large stone blocks that once made up the massive dam. "That was the blood of our people. The works of our hands, the monument of our suffering. That to which we pointed to our children and said, _this is our pain_."

His breath was misty. "And now, all erased like sleet in the sunrise. Our greatest—our only tomb—is gone."

"No." Tabin's words were spoken in a low tone, but sharp as a knife's edge. "Not forgotten. Not erased. I _refuse._"

"The spirits may have been appeased by the fall of this dam, for whatever _Erlik_-damned reason. But we are not. We _must not be._" Her voice came in a hiss. "The corpse of Odval is still warm beneath the snow. Fifty-eight years she was shaman—and in the end, she never lived to see the outside of the Mist again. Never left this forest."

Her eyes roamed further. Southward.

"We do not forget the North Dwellers in their houses of iron and walls of stone. We do not forget the forest people who manipulate the spirits to torment us." Her teeth clenched. "We _remember_. And we do not forgive."

Dako's reply came in a growl. "And what will we do, now that our people are free?"

Tabin straightened her back. "Black, blue, red, white. In all four directions will we strike." Her fingers spread. "In times of old, the world cowered behind walls and fortresses in fear of our might on the open plains. Let us remind them once again of why they were afraid—why they should be afraid."

She stood, and lifted her arm. "With her last breath, Odval prayed to Gurun for the Dagger."

Above, the falcon folded its wings. Falling like an arrow, plummeting in a blur—

—alighting on her arm, wings folded.

"Now, we will bring the sword."

* * *

**And there we go. I hope whatever interest I've kindled in what small readership I have, has now been fanned into a brighter flame!**

**The song sung by the hunters on the plain are from Hanggai's "The Rising Sun," which I felt perfectly captured the spirit of the scene.**

**As always, I sought to raise questions. Uncomfortable questions, lingering questions. And leave enough crumbs to find the beginnings of the answer in the next chapters.**

**Keep reading.**


	3. Chapter 3: Pebbles

**To the three people who have left comments so far, I thank you.**

**I feel sometimes like a pianist playing for an empty hall, except for three people in the front row, who happen to be waiting to clean up the stage and switch off the lights. Still, I guess I'll play on.**

**For everyone following so far, here is my next piece. Do enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter 3: Pebbles**

* * *

_I am…uncomfortable._

_It's been three years since I've penned my last letter. A letter—to myself, I suppose? I don't even know who I'm writing to. Maybe I'll send this to somebody, or show it to someone. Probably not Father. He wouldn't understand. It'll earn me nothing more than another tongue-lashing._

_What we had set out to do, was 'rehabilitation.' That was the word he used. Providing a savage and violent people with an outlet to contribute to something better. We would provide food and housing, building new villages along the forest edge for them to live in. Meanwhile, the Great Dam would serve as a refuge against flooding for the Northuldra, and a source of fresh water and irrigation for our farmland._

_So why am I seeing so many haggard, broken faces file past me on the docks, month after month?_

_By my estimate, we must have imported five or six thousand of these people by now—I believe my tutors called them 'steppe nomads.' They come month after month by the boatload, heading into the forest, under the watchful eyes of our guards._

_And then they are never seen again._

_Where do they go? Father is tight-lipped about this. I'm not allowed near the new villages built some many miles north of Arendelle, nor am I allowed to visit the Dam itself. I only see Father go once or twice a week, accompanied by our best guards. And each time he returns, looking unchanged, except for something about him. Some dark mood that I can sense with each word he speaks, even when he smiles at me and pats me on the head._

_These are violent, terrible men with hatred and anger in their heart, who need to be guarded and guarded against. Men who are irredeemable unless and until they are reformed and changed through noble work in our peaceful kingdom. Or so I am told, and so I have continued to be told._

_So why, on late nights when silent ships arrive on our docks, do I hear faint cries and soft voices, soothing coos and terrified sobs, when I listen from my window when the guards think I am asleep?_

_Tomorrow, I'm going to see for myself. I'll sneak atop one of the supply wagons leaving Arendelle at the crack of dawn, towards the new villages. Maybe I'll get to see the new lives of these steppe nomads, living in the houses we built. Maybe I'll even get to see the Dam itself._

_Why am I afraid?_

_Am I afraid of Father? Or—_

_Am I afraid of what I'll see?_

_Tomorrow it will be settled, one way or another._

_-Agnarr_

* * *

That night, Yelana dreamt of fire. Fire, and dust.

She had been no stranger to nightmares. The harrowing attack by the treacherous Arendellian forces under King Runeard—and the brutal death of her predecessor, Guhtur, by his blade—had forever soured her sleep with the sound of steel crashing upon wooden staves and the scent of iron-rich blood. But the distance of the years, and the recent peace, had dulled the edges of these bitter thoughts until they had become only occasional visitors, punctuating otherwise fitful sleep with flashes of foggy memory.

This was different.

Soot and ash falling thick like rain. Smoke swirling and rolling in a viscous whirling dance, like a living creature, blotting out the light of the wan sun. Throat parched, eyes stinging and tearing, the air filled with countless microscopic iron razors that ripped and hewed at her lungs with each agonizing breath. Heat, heat all around, unescapable and pervasive. And the flashes from within the smoke, of roaring, rampaging fire, unintelligent, all-consuming.

And the pounding. Across the sky, through the earth, into her head. Incessant and frantic, staccato notes of some maddening chorus of drums.

She had awoken three times in the night, in a cold sweat. Soothing her nerves with a bowl of herbal tea, staring at the glimmering stars above her head while breathing in the cool night air, comforted by the darkness. Three times had she gone back to sleep—only for her dream to continue unimpeded. As vivid as if she had never left.

This felt like no nightmare as ever before. Apart from the suffocating smoke and searing heat, she felt in the air—

Hatred. Unbridled, screaming hatred, loosed like a pack of rabid hounds, alive all around her. Pulsing like a living organism, fluttering like a horde of locusts.

She felt a thousand eyes upon her, and knew the hatred was meant for her.

Yelana sweated and thrashed on her furred sheet within her tent. Her joints wracked in agony, her brow furrowed with the inner battle against whatever savage demon had sent her these images of torment.

Fire. Smoke. Ash. Hatred.

Drums.

It was only with the dawn, and her final awakening, that Yelana's mind broke through. Her dream had sharpened, and the dim half-remembering of the dreamscape had yielded the precious clarity of daytime memory.

Not drums.

_Hoofbeats._

* * *

Elsa had never seen Yelana so exhausted or haggard. In the weeks since leaving the forest, she had come to know the Northuldra elder well. The hard years had etched deep marks of severity around her eyes to give her the look of a watchful hawk, overseeing her people. But now she looked well on the edge of collapse. Dark circles hung below her eyes, her lips were parched and cracked, and her hair hung listlessly about the shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

"I'm alright." Yelana waved a hand dismissively. "It's the air. It's getting warmer now—and I'm used to sleeping in the cold."

The elder Northuldra grunted as she removed the kettle from atop the small coal pit, slowly decanting the dark mixture into two small, earthenware cups.

"Blueberry, sorrel, and cornflower. Steeped to just the right temperature—and it does wonders for the body."

Elsa sipped slowly from her cup, feeling a blush of warmth spread across her cheeks. She murmured appreciatively.

"Something causes you unease, Elsa." Yelana set down her cup.

Elsa sighed. "Anna and I found something, back in Arendelle. A secret—something terrible."

Yelana pursed her lips. "High walls and heavy stone always conceal dark secrets. Better, I say, to be out in the open sky where words and hearts are true always."

The elder Northuldra leaned closer. "Tell me, if you can."

"Yelana," Elsa began, "did you ever know how King Runeard built the Great Dam?"

A pall came over the elder woman's face like an overcast sky. Her eyes narrowed, and the grey hairs atop her brow joined ever so closely together.

"I was only a girl when Runeard met with our leader, Elder Guhtur. And he told us something about this Nordic king, this battle-hardened leader. 'Runeard is cruel, vindictive, arrogant, and prone to anger. But the one thing he is not, is stupid.' It was a phrase he repeated many times."

With a chill, a memory arose unbidden to Elsa. The figure of the Northuldra chieftain, a teacup in hand, sitting much like Yelana was at that very moment. Behind, the shape of her grandfather, his sword raised high, prepared for the cutting blow.

"Runeard was intelligent. He convinced us to relocate to better land, land he had set aside for us, or so he claimed. He had built houses for us, wooden roofs to replace our simple tents, as a sign of goodwill." Yelana sniffed, her lips curling. "As if we needed any roof other than the sky, as if walls and doors could replace the freedom of the earth and wind."

"Guhtur had agreed early on, if only to appease this fierce Nordic king for the time being. The scent of blood and steel was still upon him; we had heard rumblings from afar of some great war on some far land beyond the sunrise from which he had returned. We sought peace, and we bowed—to our shame."

Yelana swallowed a shallow mouthful of tea.

"We stayed in his village, for as many years as we could bear. Until we could bear it no longer. We yearned for home, for the freedom of the forest. And so we marched, to Runeard, to demand our home back—"

"And you found the Dam instead." Elsa nodded, her expression heavy.

"It was huge, terrifying, bigger than anything we had ever seen or could ever imagine. It looked like nothing that the hands of men could build, and yet here it was—a gift, Runeard claimed." Yelana shuddered. "He would give the dam to us, a powerful means of controlling the river. To put an end to the flooding of the banks that marked the passage of the months; to turn away the path of water from its natural course. A bridle over the mouth of the great waters. A symbol of men's ever increasing desire to impose their will over the spirits."

Yelana finished the last dregs of her tea. "Guhtur could sense the spirits' displeasure, could feel it in the air. He had thought to meet with Runeard one more time, to air our grievances. It was perhaps his only mistake, but his last—he sought to negotiate with one who had already decided on our destruction. And the rest—the rest, is what you know. Three-odd decades of imprisonment within the forest."

The older woman brushed a silver strand of hair from her cheek. "All these years, we never knew how King Runeard built that monstrosity. We had no idea that such a thing was possible for the hands of men. Some thought that it was built with dark magic. But others—we had heard differently. Of how King Runeard was assembling an army to crush us all, to wipe out our source of magic and the last great threat to his kingdom. That dark army built his accursed Dam—and that when Runeard fell and the great mist came over the forest, that army was destroyed by the spirits."

"A dark army…" Elsa repeated. Her hands began to shake.

"After the Mist came down, and we were lost within the forest, we would sometimes hear whispers. Ghosts. The dead souls of the dark army, the Others. Lost in the mist, like us." Yelana looked down, her brow wrinkling. "This is all Runeard's doing. He can never sink deep enough into the Pit Beyond, for what he's done to us, to our land."

"Yelana," Elsa spoke again, in a low voice. "Anna and I found a box of letters written by our father. He says—he _said_—that the Dam was built by slaves, that King Runeard brought from a land across the sea."

Elsa was close enough to Yelana that their knees were almost touching. In that instant, something changed. Perhaps something subtle; perhaps Yelana's spine straightened just a little, her lips thinned just a little.

"Slaves?" The Northuldra woman repeated.

"From a land far, far east. My father called them 'people of the steppes,' and said they were a nation of warlike and savage people, brought here by our grandfather to build the Dam." Elsa paused. "Did—did you ever see them?"

Yelana stared at Elsa. Then, slowly, shook her head, grey tresses swaying. "No. If Runeard brought these people to our land, he hid them well. Poor unfortunate souls—do your grandfather's sins run for ever more?"

Elsa felt the sting in her words. Subtle, but implied. An offspring of the line of Runeard and the vicious Viking kings that came before the fathers of his fathers.

"Do you ever know what became of them?" Elsa asked.

The elder Northuldra stood. Unfolding slowly, like an ancient rusted gate opening on its hinges, straightening upright.

"After the Dam fell, we moved back to the land of our birth, as you know. It has been a time of peace. With you by our side—the Fifth Spirit, the bridge between worlds—I believe our people will finally be one with the spirits." Yelana managed a smile.

Elsa returned the smile, but the former queen would not be deterred. "I sense a _but_."

"We cannot leave the past behind, Elsa. However we may try—as you well know." Striding to the opposite side of the tent, Yelana fumbled for a moment with something just out of Elsa's view. "We are surrounded with reminders of Runeard's crimes."

There was a moment's silence, as Elsa heard the sounds of Yelana rummaging in her things.

"One thing is for certain." Yelana reappeared, with a small pouch. "All of the slaves Runeard brought to Arendelle are gone."

"How do you know?" Elsa's voice was barely a whisper.

"Because after the Dam fell, and the stone and brick were washed away—we found _this_, washed up on the banks downstream. All across the river, scattered like sand, stretching for miles."

Something fell into Elsa's outstretched hand. Or rather, hundreds of somethings. Dribbling like sand, falling over her fingers as she instinctively cupped her hands to catch it.

"Pebbles," she muttered. _No_. She looked closer.

Mixed amidst river rock, hewed and decimated by the relentless water—rounded pearls of white. Porous. Light.

Her blood chilled in her veins.

"_Bones_."


	4. Chapter 4: Kurultai

**I think every good villain is never written as a villain. We are all the heroes of our own stories, and to the villain even his motivations and purposes must seem to him to be good. It is conflict which forces the die to be cast, and the scales to fall on either good or evil. Writing a good villain has always been a challenge...but I think my litmus test of success is that after I have written, I wonder if I have truly written a villain at all.**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Kurultai**

* * *

**Steppe Theme: Altai_ Kai - Baatyrdyñ Soozi_**

* * *

Old rheumatic fingers clutched the hem of the reindeer-felt cloak, pulling it closer. The wind was merciless and biting, roaring with all the fury of dying winter as it begins to give way to inevitable spring.

Qorchi felt the pulsing reminder from his aching joints that he was no longer young. Time and the passing of many winters had replaced the young Kalmyk warrior who had ridden across the steppes like the wind alongside the great horde of the Oirat Khanate, with a grizzled, aging, creaking figure of a man. A caricature, a remnant of the strength that had once imbued his form.

But he would not miss this. Not for all the gold and silver under the great everlasting sky.

He made his way towards the _ger_, standing stark upon the white plain, the many colours of its flags flapping in the wind like wings. The felt dwelling looked as any other, perhaps slightly bigger and taller than the horde of its cousins lying in the valley below. But its humble appearance belied its fateful purpose. Within its walls of reindeer felt, the fate and future of ten thousand people would be decided.

The guards saluted him briskly, raising their fists to their chests. Underneath their leather long-coats, he saw the glint of the numerous scales of lamellar armor, the workmanship of the old glory of the Xiongnu. And at their sides, the old symbol of strength—the Turko-Mongol sabre.

He pulled back the cover of the tent, and stepped into the darkness within.

The steppe peoples were practical. Nonsense and needless grandiosity were frowned upon as the lavish excesses and stupidity of settled peoples behind their walls. And so Qorchi was pleased to find that his cousins and comrades had not fallen to the foolishness of the Western kings in their adherence to 'court decorum'.

The meeting had already begun, even without him. Men and women mingled freely with no concern for station or rank. Every tribe had sent its representative, every warrior with claim to fame or noble with some remnant of the old glory of a family name was in attendance.

Slaves they might have been, but what were a few decades of hardship compared to centuries of heritage? This was their first _khural_, the meeting of so many disparate tribes that had previously migrated and fought together but never were united in kinship or ideology. Here, the future of the steppe _diaspora _would be determined—and every voice heard.

The tent was abuzz in chatter and discussion, illuminated by the glow of a number of oil lanterns—spoils, from the old raids into the Northern camps. With his arrival, however, the hubbub diminished to a whisper. Among the distinguished tribesmen, he was accorded a measure of respect beyond that of a petty noble, even despite his base birth.

"Hail Qorchi, Outrider of the Blue Talon. _Amar mend üü_." The voice from the centre of the tent was young, but ringed with steel. "You grace this meeting with your presence."

Qorchi offered a nod, recognizing the sharp features of the Hunnic leader. "Hail Tabin, Huntress of the great _Tengri_. My sincere apologies for my lateness—I have only just returned from the border of the Mist-line. These wilds can be deep and treacherous."

Tabin's nod was barely a downward tilt of her chin. Everything about the Hun was hard and severe; her eyes dark and piercing, her hair tied back in the fashion of a warrior, and her body underneath her leather tunic was lithe and supple. She had been born into a world of endless snow and unceasing hardship, and bore her scars with pride. Tabin—_fifty_, the fiftieth child to survive till birth.

She had been raised by the horse-lords of the old Chagatai khanate, and was said to have learned to shoot a bow before she reached her third winter. On her twentieth birthday, she had presented the elder horse-lords with a gift: the heads of ten Northern guard captains, hollowed out and fashioned into drinking cups. Beyond anything, she had been bred by the people of the steppes to harbor a nearly-inexhaustible hatred for the Northerners and forest peoples.

"Enough with the chatter and wives' tales!" A long-bearded chieftain barked. "With Qorchi here, we can finally sit down to discuss real matters. _War_, and the destruction of the north!"

Qorchi smiled, as he took his seat. Huvishka was another old wolf, the product of Kushan and Iranian ancestry. His journey through slavery had started in the aftermath of a grievous defeat on a Balkan plain, where he was captured alongside his family by the victorious army of Dunbroch. And after his family was slaughtered during a failed escape attempt from a work camp, his thirst for Northern blood had become insatiable.

"Qorchi, you have trekked to the edge of the woods and have scouted the land outside of the Mist." A nearby chieftain gestured to him. "What have you seen?"

Qorchi cleared his throat. "The land beyond the forest is lush and fertile. Years without men or horses have allowed the wild fruit to flourish and reindeer to grow plentiful and fat. Vast plains, stretching from the foothills of the mountain to the mouth of the great river."

The murmuring started. Hopeful, expectant.

"Our people could resettle there. Leave behind this accursed cold waste." An old chieftain wheezed, her speech cut short by a bout of coughing. "I have buried thirty of my people this winter, lost to phthisis*. I will bury no more."

"What of the Northerners?" Huvishka growled. "This idle talk about moving or resettling is pointless if our enemies are lying in wait. Did you see their numbers? Their strength?"

Qorchi scratched his moustache. "As you know, the Northern king Ruun-ard brought approximately two thousand of his elite guard with him into the forest, on the day of Mist-fall thirty three years ago. These soldiers were trapped with us, and have made our lives difficult both by the threat they posed and the resources they consumed—which we dearly needed. However, over the years, their numbers have been whittled down. By the harshness of the land, by the treacherous landscape, by the demon spirits which seem to strike at them and us without distinction, by starvation—"

"A _curse _upon these Northerners and their hardships!" Huvishka spat. "They are but a fraction of what our people have endured!"

Several elders grunted in agreement. One turned to spit upon the ground. Since the Mist descended upon the land, their troubles had never ceased. Whirlwinds ripped tents from the ground, fire razed trees and left charred corpses in their wake, and floods destroyed viable pastures and drowned many. And of course, the terrible giants of stone, who treaded through the forest and crushed many a man, woman, and child beneath their feet.

They had none of the forest peoples' affinity for the spirits. They were hated by the air, the earth, the water, and the flames, as invaders and trespassers. Unlike the people of the sun, their presence was intolerable to the very land. They had cut up and carved out their existence with blood and pain—surviving, thriving, and cultivating their vengeance.

Qorchi continued. "The Northerners have suffered heavy losses these years. King Ruun-ard did not bring a supply train, and hence their numbers exceeded their capacity to sustain them. I estimate that no more than a quarter of their troops escaped the forest, in the end."

"A quarter!" Huvishka's teeth showed from within his thick beard. "Barely a borderland patrol! We could crush them like grapes in a winepress!"

"Peace, Huvishka. Let Qorchi finish his report." Tabin's voice was peaceful, but firm. She was no leader—they had no _Khan, _not yet—but she commanded respect beyond her years.

"What of their great city, to the south?" A younger male voice piped up. Qorchi could not see who spoke.

"Surprisingly, the destruction of the great Dam did not flood and destroy the Northern city. I too was in disbelief when I discovered that their city—_Araan-dool_, in their language—was untouched by the fierce waters." Qorchi's brow furrowed. "This means that their high castle and strong walls still stand. And their dock is still capable of bearing vessels."

The general mood darkened. A castle was a stiff obstacle, a bastion from which troops could sally forth. Impossible to take without a siege, a castle could serve as a vital control point to restrict the movement of the enemy. And a dock meant an open channel for fresh supplies and mercenaries.

"There is yet more grim news. It appears that the forest people and the people of _Araan-dool_—once mortal enemies, as they are to us—have made peace. Trade now flows freely between the remnants of the forest people and the great city. I have seen the wagons and the stream of traders."

"This bodes ill." The elderly female chieftain spoke again. "The war between the forest people and the Northerners were the reason that our people could survive and flourish in the Mist. Their endless skirmishes caused their numbers to dwindle, allowing us to migrate northwards into the mountains unmolested. Should they now join their strength together—the Northerners with their better weapons and training, and the forest people with their magical affinity—we face a much greater threat."

Qorchi now recognized her. The years had not been kind to Maiosara and her tribe of Sarmatians, ripped from their heartland of inner Georgia. Beneath her thin and liver-spotted face, she wore a necklace of beads—each representing a death in the tribe. The weight of the necklace now bent her neck like a yoke.

"Which is why we must strike!" Huvishka leaned forward like a hound straining against its chain. "We must attack one of the two, before they can unite their forces. Seize the initiative now, and we will secure victory and breathing room for our great horde. Dally and delay—and we will find ourselves fighting a stronger enemy at the time and place of _their _choosing, not ours."

"Don't forget their port." It was Dako the Bulgar, speaking with a voice that was less speech and more steel grinding on rock. "We are counting our numbers against the forest people and the Northerners only. What of mercenaries, employed with _Araan-dool_'s great treasury? How will we fare against Hussar Life Guards? Or Swiss pikemen? Or the _hakkapelliitta _of Sweden?"

The tent erupted in murmuring. Many of the oldest ones had fought on the plains of Europe, and remembered the fury of fighting the armored warriors of the settled peoples. For all their mobility and speed, the nomads were lightly armored. Against the heavy cavalry and long pikes of the Westerners, they were easily cut down.

"By _Erlik_, listen to you all." Tremulous and quavering, the voice came from behind Qorchi. "So eager for war, so willing to die upon these foreign blades."

The tapping of a staff upon the frozen ground echoed in the tent. From the darkness, emerged the skull of a reindeer. Adorned in beads and tassels, painted in blue and red. Its empty eye sockets stared forwards, as if in silent reproach.

The shaman stood gripping the staff for support. Clad in the sacred garment of the tribal _qam_, the same ragged cloth which had adorned Odval's body until her recent death. Upon his head rested the headdress of feather and bone, crowned with the twin antlers of a reindeer bull. His hair hung around his shoulders like a veil, tied into dreadlocks. With Odval gone, passing into the netherworld when the Mist lifted—he was now their spiritual guardian.

Naranbaatar was bent almost double with age, walking with a pronounced limp, each step punctuated by a quiet wheeze. Every word from his lips came with great effort—lending them a solemn gravity that never went unheeded.

"I am old enough to have lived on the steppes longer than I have lived in these northern lands. I remember war. I remember the smoke and ash, the dead and dying."

He looked around the room, which had fallen silent. "_Do you?_" It came with the venom of an accusation. "You who scream for battle, who raise your swords to the sky. Have you gazed into the eye of war?"

The reindeer skull leered forward at Qorchi. "I will grant Qorchi his due respect. His raids and skirmishes against the scattered Northmen in these forests have been vital to our survival. Always utterly destroying the enemy, and with almost no casualties on our side." The skull leaned a little to the right. "I honour Tabin as well, for who does not know of her ferocity and skill in battle?"

"I honour each of you who has struck a blow against the Northerners these thirty three years. And even so—"

His staff struck the ground, the bells upon the reindeer totem chiming with the blow. "How large was your fiercest battle? A hundred fighters? Two hundred? Five hundred?"

Naranbaatar glared, from sunken eyes in hollowed sockets ringed by wrinkles. "I fought in the Battle of Three Rivers, fifty-nine years ago, as a Hunnic auxiliary in Swabia. That battle lasted from sunrise to sunset. In that time, _eighty four thousand _soldiers perished."

He watched, as his words fell upon the assembly like harsh cold rain.

"_Eighty four thousand. _Can any of you great warlords and chieftains imagine such a number? Can you comprehend it, can you even grasp its enormity? Imagine the entirety of our number, all our tribes gathered together, and destroyed. Destroy them five times over, and you would still not approach the number that were slain on that one day."

Naranbaatar paused, catching his breath. His nostrils flared. "I have seen troops from Corona fallen on the field and blanketing the ground so thick that the standard of their Sun looked as a flag upon a hill of corpses. I have seen three rivers running red with blood, as thick as undiluted wine."

His gaze was iron-hard upon the chiefs and warlords. Beneath that burning gaze, men and women of war quailed. The shaman held a position of supreme spiritual authority in the tribe—the link between the Altai and the eternal sky.

"_That _is war. _That _is battle. Will any of you willingly visit that upon your kin, your family, your sons and daughters?" he wheezed. "Now that we are free of the Mist, are we now to plunge ourselves into a greater disaster of our own making?"

"We deserve vengeance. If Ruun-ard is beyond our reach, then we must have the life of his son." Huvishka snarled.

"His son is dead." Qorchi bowed at Naranbaatar, before addressing Huvishka. "Lost at sea, along with his wife, some many years ago."

The wizened shaman clutched his staff and looked at Qorchi. "And who leads _Araan-dool _now?"

"Ruun-ard's son had two daughters. One of them now sits on the throne—I know not which."

Naranbaatar's head bowed, his expression pensive. Those closest to him could hear the soft chants of ancient spells and wards, barely a whisper—and knew he was in commune with the elements, seeking guidance.

At last, he lifted his head. "Seek out the ruler of _Araan-dool _and show her our strength. Show her our might to make war—and seek peace."

He struck his staff against the ground. "They will become our satrapy. Let them pay us with gold and silver, with meat and with wine. Let them offer us hostages, that we may have assurances. Let their queen remember always the wolf at her door, and yet let her also be assured that so long as that wolf is fed, her kingdom will have peace."

Angry muttering exploded around the tent. Qorchi could see a vein throbbing in Huvishka's temple, as he burst out. "_Peace? Peace? _After all that we have—"

"_Be still!_" Naranbaatar cried, then broke into a strangled fit of coughing. The hubbub died down until he, at last, regained his breath. "Eager and impetuous dogs of war! _Araan-dool _is a fortress protected on three sides by the sea, and guarded by a high castle! We may crush them eventually, and win the vengeance you so desperately seek—and in the doing, we will lose three-fifths of our number and break ourselves!"

"There will be vengeance." The shaman strode slowly around the tent. "With _Araan-dool,_ you shall attempt peace. But with the forest people—with that accursed race called the _**Northuldra**, _you will offer nothing but destruction."

His voice trembled, with hatred now. "They are an affront to _Tengri_. They commune with the northern demons and set them upon us. They dabble in damnable magic and threaten our existence." He raised a finger. "Two wolves cannot live in the same cave. And so long as they inhabit this forest—we cannot truly be free."

"The _Northuldra _must be destroyed. This is the word of the shaman. This is the command of the spirits—of _Gurun_, that old Khan for which Odval bled for thirty three years." Naranbaatar's words, in his thin and feeble voice, rang like the clash of a gong.

"I will do this." Qorchi stood up, quick despite his age. "I have a blood debt to collect, with their shaman—that cursed woman called _Yelana_. I will have my own vengeance, for the sake of my wife and my sons and my daughters. And in so doing, I will execute the will of the spirits."

"The Blue Talon stands with you, Qorchi!" A young voice cried out, and several others joined in loud assent.

"Then let it be done." Naranbaatar shook his staff. "But beware, Qorchi, for I have beheld another vision. The _Northuldra _now have another shaman. One far more powerful that any, the like of which has never been seen. With the spirits at her beck and call, and herself imbued with strong magic. Beware, Qorchi."

The old tribesman stood stiffer. "Let them summon all the shamans and all the spirits they can. They will not stand against us. I will sweep them from the forest and into the dust of the underworld."

Naranbaatar nodded. "Then _Tengri _be with you, and Gurun strengthen your blade!"

The shaman limped back to the centre of the tent. "I have imbued you with patience and with cunning. Now I must strengthen your courage and your ferocity. We have been chosen by _Tengri _to lay claim to this land. Why else, then, would the Fortresses of Water be found, if not to bless us and strengthen our people? Why else, would _Tengri _offer us this bounty?"

Many heads nodded. The Fortresses of Water—perhaps the one thing that the steppe peoples could consider a true miracle. It had been ten years ago, when their scouts had found the edge of the coast on the side of the mountains. They had seen cold frigid water lapping on the rocky shores, and—

Ships. Great ships of wood ringed with iron, terrifying warships built in the style of the large Yuan junks of Chinggis Khaan. Dashed against the rocks, weathered by years, unusable and unseaworthy. None could explain how they could have come by there, so many thousands of miles from the Mongol heartland.

They were unseaworthy. Their hulls had been wrecked by the sea, and with them, any hope of escape by water.

But their true value lay in what they carried within. Weapons, armor, equipment. Their holds were filled with enough supplies for an entire _tumen_ of soldiers—the food had long rotted, the maps and books had since spoiled, but the steel had been made by the great Huns. Their edges were still sharp.

It was unmistakable. A gift from the great _Tengri_ directly to his people. And with that gift—armed and armored—they had begun to sweep the Northerners from the far side of the forest.

"You are the children of great kings and warlords. You bear the spirit of war. Armies and empires have broken under your feet. Kings and generals have knelt before the hooves of your mounts. _Remember who you are_!" Naranbaatar slammed his staff upon the ground. "Fear no darkness, and fear no enemy!"

Later, they feasted. Upon roasted reindeer and red wine.

Later still, Qorchi would leave. To gather the Blue Talon, and march forward to his deadly purpose.

And yet later, Naranbaatar would sit in the tent alone, in silent commune with the spirits, his words spoken, his message delivered.

* * *

**_Notes:_**

**_*Phthisis _is the Greek name for tuberculosis, a systemic disease which often starts with a prolonged cough, night sweats and loss of weight, followed by more serious symptoms such as coughing up blood (_haemoptysis). _In cramped conditions with high population density (such as here among tent-dwelling nomads), it can spread quickly. Without anti-TB therapy, mortality is high.**

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**To everyone who has read and reviewed, thank you and continue to do so!**

**A note about the 'themes' appended to my stories. They can be considered a 'soundtrack' of sorts, pieces of music which I have been listening to and have guided my thoughts and direction during the writing process. Think of them as a wine recommendation to be paired with the main course-simply a suggestion, and of course you can choose to pair it with any wine you choose, or go with no wine at all.**


	5. Chapter 5: The Next Right Thing

**I would appreciate your reviews, your thoughts, your criticisms and your suggestions. For a writer to improve, he needs to hear from his audience. I always strive to experiment with my writing, to improve upon it. Whether it be making dialogue sharper or descriptions crisper, whether it be writing characters that are more interesting and multi-faceted, I am always trying to make sure that my writing doesn't go stale or stagnant.**

**To do that, I need your help. So if you've read this so far, if you enjoy it, or if you didn't (_especially _if you didn't), I want and need your thoughts. Let me know what you liked and what you didn't. And above all, lend my your support, so I know that I have someone I am writing for.**

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**Chapter 5: The Next Right Thing**

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_**Steppe Theme: Fiddler of the Plains (Total War Attila OST Track 42)**_

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**Blue Talon Camp**

"A little bit further from the end, Borte."

The little girl squatting on the floor squinted in concentration as she pressed the hawk-feather onto the thin wooden shaft, barely wider than a chopstick.

"I'm almost getting better at fle—flewwy—fletty—" Borte frowned as she babbled, still fiddling with the feather.

"Fletching," her brother finished for her. The older boy was sanding a thin cylinder of wood, shaping it into an arrow shaft. "And I'm better at it than you."

"Am not!" Borte stuck her tongue out at her brother. "You're a dumb one, Batu."

"Children, break it off," their mother chided wearily. "You will need to fletch many more arrows, for Chagan to carry with him when he rides with the Blue Talon."

The young nomad stood at the entrance of the _ger_, recurve bow slung over his shoulders, and flashed his siblings a broad smile. "And I can't imagine going out to war without the best arrows in the whole world, made by you two!"

"You really think so?" Borte's eyes widened.

"Of course! Look at this." Chagan picked up one of the new arrows, and rotated it slowly between his fingers. "The balance is just right. If the feathers are too straight, the arrow loses spin; too offset, and it flies too slowly through the air. But this—perfect." He ruffled his younger sister's hair with a calloused hand, more rugged and muscular than the other—the mark of a bowman, the repeated motion of drawing a bow lending his dominant hand its signature deformity.

"Will you be gone long?" Atuya looked at her son, brushing a wisp of grey hair from her forehead. Her gaze was over her son's shoulder, but while her eyes were on the rows of reindeer pelts tanning on the racks, her thoughts lay elsewhere.

The young nomad sighed. "Qorchi intends to set off immediately for the nearest large camp of the forest people. He estimates that we will see battle by tomorrow's sun-fall. After that, we will determine the location of their main camp, and strike there within the week. I think—I think we will meet this powerful shaman. This one, capable of controlling the snow and the sky."

A scarred finger played nervously with the string of his bow. "I will bring honour to our family. Whatever the outcome, in life—or in death."

Atuya's expression was unmoving, even as she nodded. It was the way of the north, the lot of the steppe peoples. Death was familiar. Stealing babies from the womb, stealing children in their fits and fevers, and stealing young men before the prime of their life. All one could do was to brace oneself against it. Life would be what it always was.

"Then take this." Atuya pressed a wooden talisman into Chagan's hand. "Your father brought it with him, when he was first taken by the Northerners. A ward against evil and magic. May it protect you against the foulness of the Northuldra."

Chagan nodded, closing his fingers against the talisman. In the bitter cold, the warm wooden surface felt like home.

Atuya smiled. "If you are afraid, don't do it," she repeated the saying. "And if you do it—"

Chagan smiled back. "—_I will not be afraid._"

* * *

_**Arendelle Theme: Polonaise Op. 40 no. 2 in C minor (by Frederik Chopin)**_

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**Arendelle Castle**

Deep brown eyes adorned with the faintest strokes of crows' feet at the edges, looking ahead as resolute as the chief mountain of a mighty range. A glimmer in his left eye like a dewdrop, though the lieutenant could not be sure if it was deliberate or the slip of a painter's brushstroke.

"Lieutenant Mattias."

He turned to face the young woman he now called queen. Clad in a dark green dress, her hair painstakingly braided underneath the circlet upon her head. Here and there upon her slender face, he saw Agnarr; the slope of her cheekbones, the curve of her nose, and the playful freckles that dotted her cheeks.

"Queen Anna." He bowed. "I'm sorry if I look distracted, it's just—I've never seen how your father looked like when he was all grown up." His brow furrowed in sadness. "I always wondered what kind of king he would have become, how he would have looked like—and now, I'll never get the chance to see for myself."

He looked back at the portrait. "Only to look at paintings, and read books about him."

Anna's lips trembled, even as the corners of her eyes grew wet. "He was a good father, and a good king. Not a day goes by that I don't miss him."

She inhaled.

It wasn't easy, what she was about to ask of the old lieutenant. He was loyal, and he was kind. She had looked upon his portrait long ago, imagining him to be the brave and steadfast protector that had safeguarded her father, and was delighted to find that the man himself lived up to her imaginings. And so she feared hearing his answer—feared that only a few words would shatter the image she had built of the man who had become the protector of Arendelle.

"Lieutenant Mattias—" she began, "I've asked to see you because of this—"

She gestured to the table, at the dozens of letters scattered over its surface.

"I've just found a collection of my father's letters—well, memoirs, really. And I need to ask you about them." She handed one of the faded, folded sheets to Mattias.

The old lieutenant began to read.

Anna watched his eyes as they scanned each line. Then peeling back, in unconcealed shock. And then, the colour began to recede from his cheeks, as his lips thinned.

"Lieutenant," her voice was low. "This journal entry was written by my father, when he was fifteen years old. He snuck aboard a wagon heading for the dam while it was being built, and…"

She knew the words that Mattias was reading even now. Knew where they lay upon the page, and could follow Matthias' eyes; knew, even more, of the shock that had hit her like a hailstone, and could see it reflected in his eyes.

"…_What I saw was terrible, rows upon rows of men and women carrying bricks…Our own people, holding whips and dealing out terrible lashings…I couldn't bear it anymore…"_

"…_Those were never new villages, for the steppe peoples to settle in, they were slave camps…"_

"Queen Anna…" His lips were dry, his hold on the letter was quivering.

"Lieutenant, I need to know the truth. Answer me simply." She inhaled. "_Did you know_?"

Mattias put the letter down. His features, already lined with age, now looked even more haggard. He ran a hand over his mouth, stroking the corners of his lips.

And finally, after what seemed like an eternity—

"Yes."

A rubber band tightened around her chest, pressing inwards until she could almost feel her heart thudding against her ribs like a hammer. The crook of one knee bent, and bent some more, and she gripped the edge of the table because she would not, she _could not_, fall, not now, not when she had to—

"How?" Her tongue felt like a dry rubber thing, dragging across her teeth. "How could this happen? _How could you?_"

Mattias's head lifted. Hollow tired eyes draped with wrinkled and liver-spotted skin, like the windows of a broken and abandoned house. The lieutenant's shoulders dropped, and in that moment it was as if an old yew tree had crumpled at its trunk, bending on the verge of collapse. Eaten by regret, as by termites.

"My Queen—" A speckled hand brushed across his mouth. "I served under your grandfather King Runeard as lieutenant for ten years before your father was born. And he was everything that you now think him to be."

His hand brushed across the multitude of letters lying on the table. Silent witnesses—accusing witnesses.

"Cruel. Mistrustful. Ruthless."

And then the hand stopped, clenching into a fist. "He was also _exactly _what we needed."

"_How could you say that?_" Anna burst out, fingers clutched at her bosom. Her eyes darted erratically, from her father's letters, to Mattias' forlorn face, scrambling to find some measure of stability or surety. "He was a cruel king! A slavemaster! And a murderer!"

"He was!" Mattias answered. Then softer. "He was also the reason that Arendelle survived."

The old lieutenant turned his eyes to the opposite wall. The faded map of Europe, with its multitude of colours and its names and markers crammed so tightly that it looked like an anthill crawling with ants.

"Fifty years ago, Arendelle faced its greatest crisis in recent history." Mattias gaze roamed across the northern region of the map. "The Nordic League had collapsed, and all the individual Northern kingdoms were now left to fend for themselves. Of all of them, Arendelle was the weakest. We had almost no navy to speak of, a small army, and our economy was almost on the verge of collapse."

His eyes settled on the icon of the small castle, perched on the nose of the peninsula. "We were under threat from many enemies. Teine to the west, Dunbroch to the south, Rustam to the east. Many of the other Northern kingdoms had already fallen; our allies were no more. Arendelle was on the brink of destruction—and it was at this time, that a twenty-year old man became king at our darkest hour."

Mattias breathed in deep. A glance at Anna told him that the queen was listening. Her lips drawn in protest, her nostrils flared in anger, but listening intently all the same.

She knew something of history, from her tutors and from the occasional book she would pick up in her boredom. She had always felt more secure in the sureties of the real world and the scent of life outside the walls, rather than the musty abstractions of the written word. Perhaps Elsa would have known more, remembered or understood more. But even so—Anna could sense it. What was in the books was sanitized and edited. Here, she knew, she was getting history as it happened—uncensored.

"King Runeard was no older than you when he attained the throne. He immediately set to consolidating his position. Nobles of questionable loyalty were bullied into falling in line, or else expelled and exiled from the court. He crushed all protest and rebellion, and secured his power as king."

Mattias looked around the room. Realising perhaps, as Anna did, that no portrait of Runeard hung from the walls.

Anna's only image of Runeard was from the icy form of the monarch that Elsa had summoned, in her bid to show her sister the truth about their past. The severe face, the heavy-set brow, the moustache curled in malice and grim determination. Her imagination pulled away at the years, attempting to restore his visage. To imagine the face of a young king, barely older than she was—and failed.

"King Runeard's very first act was to commission the construction of Arendelle castle. The fjord was the way to Arendelle's very throat, and he wanted to protect it. He needed a fortress that could withstand a siege. Bolt slats for crossbowmen, retired flanks to protect the walls, bastion hollows for siege equipment. Even this room—" He gestured around, at the large ballroom, with the balcony opening out towards the sea. "This was originally built to house a ballista. Runeard needed his kingdom prepared for war. It was only later—under your father, as I understand—that this palace turned into a home for the royal family."

Anna looked around. And could see it—beyond the velvet tapestries and dining tables, she could imagine the bulk of an ugly ballista, its bow pointed at the fjord.

"He set to work building up our forces. Training new soldiers, building new ships, and hiring mercenaries to supplement our army. He knew how dangerous our situation was—he knew our enemies was looking for signs of weakness. He would show them none." Mattias turned again to the map, to the mass of red, indigo, and dark blue staining the map.

"Your grandfather was built for the battlefield. Two days after his twenty-first birthday, he led five hundred of our finest elite guard to Swabia, in defense of Corona, one of our only allies. He returned bloodied and wounded, but victorious. He missed the birth of your father because he was aboard a warship in the Southern Sea, hunting down Barbary pirates to secure our shipping routes. He forged alliances with Weselton and the Southern Isles, in an effort to secure our borders. Without him, without his ruthlessness and cruelty, there would not be a kingdom today for you to rule over."

"And he hated the Northuldra. _Why_?" Anna stepped forward, towards Mattias, squaring her shoulders. "Why would he hate a people who only want to live alone in peace? Why would he go so far as to trap them, and try to kill them?"

Mattias' head drooped low. "Why indeed? Because the Northuldra were everything that he could not tolerate. He could not have a people living freely on land that belonged to _him, _in connection with magic he could not understand. He could not tolerate any weak link in his kingdom. He had defeated enemies afar—he could not have an enemy within his own borders."

"That's only his fear!" Anna blurted out, fists balled. "A king should not be ruled by fear, and should not rule through fear. It's not the way."

"Fear? Perhaps." Mattias' lips and tongue treaded tiredly over each syllable. "But it's one thing to suppress your own fear. When your shoulders bear the future of an entire kingdom—you have not only a right, but a _responsibility, _to fear on behalf of your people. And to act, lest your fears come true."

"What about the slaves? The people he beat and tortured, who he put to work on the dam?" Anna drew close, nearly chest-to-chest with the old lieutenant. "You cannot explain that away. You can't just say he did that—all of _that_—for the good of our kingdom!"

Mattias shook his head. As he walked over to the map, his collar dropped for a short moment. And in that space before Mattias adjusted his uniform, Anna spotted the long stripe of a ragged scar, across the nape of his neck.

"I don't know exactly where he came from, or how they came to his knowledge." The lieutenant pointed at the centre of the map, at the vast hinterland east of Swabia. "All I know is that he had secured an alliance with Dunbroch and Corona in the aftermath of a great and terrible war, and that in that war they took many prisoners from the defeated soldiers of the great plains. Skilled horsemen and archers, who had fought against Corona and lost."

Mattias' fingers scraped across that stretch of untamed wilderness, that fierce wild womb that had birthed the steppe peoples since the times of the ancient Parthians and Scythians that had ravaged Greece. "The prisoners were too numerous for Corona to deal with. So in return for renewed alliances, King Runeard took the prisoners under his control, with the help of a shipping company that worked these waters, and brought them to Arendelle."

Mattias turned now, to another smaller map beside him. The map of Arendelle, and its surrounding territories. "King Runeard had a plan. The dam wasn't just meant to starve out the Northuldra and disrupt their connection to magic. It was the beginning of something more—Runeard planned to industrialise the entirety of Arendelle. To build a powerful technical base to prepare us for the war he always thought was coming. He intended to construct work camps throughout the entire north, along with forts and outposts to guard them."

"I was only twenty-one when I joined the guard." Mattias pinched the bridge of his nose. "I rebelled against the idea. It went against everything I believed in. And yet—Runeard had a way with words, and an iron will to back those words. He told us that this was a necessity, a lesser evil, to prepare us for a greater one. He never used the word _slaves_. These were prisoners, their lives forfeit, now put to work to a better purpose in return for food and shelter. We came to accept, if not his reasons, then at least his methods. We knew—_thought —_the Northuldra were the enemy. The near enemy, more than the far. Before Runeard could break the enemy beyond our shores, he needed to crush it here."

Mattias' clenched fist struck the wall. "The steppe peoples were stubborn, hard of will. To continue the work, to ensure the dam continued to be built, we had to resort to—_extreme methods_." Mattias's head leaned in to the wall, as if in confession. "I hated myself. I never participated—_never, _I promise you, Queen Anna—but I knew it happened—"

He broke off. Heaved deeply, his breath loud and exertional. And Anna, tense like a coiled spring, her head lightening as her heart thudded faster and faster like a racehorse—stayed quiet.

"How could I?" Mattias whispered. "_How could I do it? _The Northuldra are peaceful and kind; the very people I considered an enemy were better than we could ever hope to be. Thirty-three years, suffering for a wrong that should have never happened. And I thought—I thought that it was all in the past. That these slaves, the ones we mistreated, the ones we tortured—they were all dead, and King Runeard was dead, and I even managed to bury my guilt and regret like an old shame, until it didn't seem like it was ever _me. _Like there was some other man named Destin Mattias who did these terrible things, and he was so much different from me, from the man I _knew _myself to be."

"And now the truth is out." Anna's eyes were fiery and unyielding.

"And now the truth is out," Mattias responded wearily. "So, Queen of Arendelle, what will you do? If it is to punish me—I await my justice with readiness. I only wish I had paid for this thirty three years sooner."

Anna's back straightened, as her head rose, the crown upon her hair seizing the light of noon. At just the right angle, the centermost jewel caught the light and cast a brief flare of the brightest green.

_Queen of Arendelle._

"The right thing would have been to never let this happen in the first place. To stop Runeard before he could have done this—to stain our soil and sully the souls of our people. But he is dead and gone, and the great wrong has already been committed."

Anna's voice never wavered. She was channeling her father now, feeling his eyes lying upon her as he gazed from the portrait on the wall. This was Arendelle—_she _was Arendelle.

"We need to put this right. And if we can't do the right thing—we can still do _the next right thing_."

Mattias faced his queen. And then straightened his back, the medals upon his chest clinking softly as he drew himself to full height to face his liege and his monarch.

"I stand ready, my queen. To put right what we must. But still—how?" He exhaled through dry lips. "These steppe people are dead. All of them, dead and gone."

Anna was now holding up another folded letter. Dated many years later. Written by her father, when he had finally become king.

"No, lieutenant. _Not all_."

* * *

**The White Waste**

**North of north, beyond the Great River**

Naranbaatar sat within the _ger_, the reindeer-skull staff beside him, as he slowly ground the white paste underneath the stone pestle. The cold yapped bitterly at his lungs, like many insects nipping at the airways beneath his chest.

He scooped a fingertip of paste, and inhaled it through a nostril. Relief would come soon—his lungs opening up, the cough relenting, if only for a moment. The old remedies would work for his body—as would the old ways work for his people.

"Elder Naranbaatar." Tabin paused, respectfully, at the entrance of the _ger_.

"Come in, Tabin," the shaman wheezed gruffly.

Tabin bowed, before approaching. The young Hunnic warrior was a fierce and respected leader, but the shaman held a position above all others. Customs must be respected, boundaries upheld.

"You are making preparations for war, I presume." Naranbaatar continued to grind with the pestle. "Assembling the warriors. Beginning the drills."

"My Red Talon stands ready," Tabin answered. "We can move fast, and strike faster. Once Qorchi and his Blue Talon have scouted the enemy, we will come upon them with speed."

Naranbaatar nodded, scattering a pinch of dried leaves into the mortar. "Good. Good, Tabin." He struck the stone with the pestle, again and again. "But I have lived too long not to hear what is unspoken, as loud as what is spoken."

"You wish that you were striking against the Northerners, not only the Northuldra." The shaman looked at the young warrior, from behind a curtain of long beaded dreadlocks.

"Odval prayed, every single night." Tabin drew closer, kneeling on a single knee. A gesture of practicality, not just supplication, to bring her face level with his. "She prayed for a dagger to strike the heart of the North. To pierce the ruler of _Araan-dool_."

"Of what use is this _dagger, _if it is not wielded in our hands?" She hissed. "Why cannot we be the blade that pierces the North? Why must we seek peace with those who are responsible for our pain?"

Naranbaatar's cracked lips were firm. And yet, softer than she expected, he reached out an arthritic hand to grasp hers.

"You must learn patience, before all else. Gurun will act—he _must_, with our offerings of blood, and our ancient covenant with the sand of his desert. Believe, believe, that the dagger will come. That the Northerners will learn of the fury and strength of the Great Khan of the Desert."

"What is this dagger?" Tabin blurted. Enough of metaphors, enough of veiled language and allusions. "What could come to strike the North? Will a blade fall from the sky upon the head of the ruler of the Northerners?"

Naranbaatar, in spite of her insolence, smiled. "The Dagger is real. I know, because I have studied the old texts. Have lingered over them, with Odval, and have marveled at the old covenant of Gurun. And I know the Dagger comes. Like a great wave, like a thunderbolt from a storm cloud, like a hail of ten thousand arrows. Unstoppable and unassailable."

"The Dagger is not a _what_, Tabin." Naranbaatar looked past the young Hun's shoulders, beyond the entrance of the tent, into the vast whiteness beyond.

"The Dagger is a _**who**_."

* * *

**The Dock of Arendelle**

A single footprint.

Etched in fine sand, the delineation of the sole of a leather boot. Pressed into the surface of a wet plank on the pier of a charming Nordic kingdom, one of innumerable others. It lasted only seconds, lingering like the mist of a kiss on a mirror, before wind and water swept the minute grains into the clear crystal sea.

All evidence of his arrival was now gone.

He had descended from the hold of the ship unseen, unchallenged. Shrouded from mortal eyes, wreathed in arts older even than the old stone markers of the True North or the border flags of the western wastes. Sunlight curled around him like smoke, wind whispered through his body as if it were a sieve. Any who laid eyes on him saw but a passing mirage, a trick of the light quickly forgotten in view of the next glittering sight or briny smell of the marketplace.

The learned and scholarly had long doubted the existence of him and his kin. Of how they lived in the eye of a perpetual sandstorm that never subsided, that raged everlasting in the heart of the Gobi where even _Tenger-Etseg_ dared not stretch his fingers.

Gloved fingers, lithe and strong, brushed across the hilts of the blades under his cloak. Bloodletting tools of his trade, bearing the scent and blood-iron of severed arteries and macerated muscle.

He had come in pursuit of a vendetta nearly fifty years in the making. Older than even him. And yet blood did not forget. From the dark and endless desert he had come, to this strange realm of white-crowned peaks and the white-sand that laid cold and thick upon the land.

His name was lost to all living knowledge. His identity was moot—he was not a person. He was a consolidation of will and intent, purpose given form. Not a messenger but the message, sent on a straight path with a singular motive. Only to complete the mission and avenge the debt. Only then, would the sand be satisfied. Only then—would sand cease to hunger.

Of the old ones, some know of the name. Some mystic scholars of the gnostic arts, or perhaps shamans of the eternal sky. It was inherited from nameless one to nameless one, a singular role inhabited by a chain of living beings given themselves over to the purpose. The sword-point of the _Elsen Shuurga_, irresistible and inescapable.

It was a name that conjured despair and inevitability. And if any of them knew—knew of his coming, they would be well within their rights to weep for the fate of the two young sisters he had no doubt come to seek.

**The Dagger had come to Arendelle.**

And death rode behind him.

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**Read. Respond. Review.**

**That is the mission.**


	6. Chapter 6: Sunrise to Sunset

**Read and review, would you kindly. Get us beyond single digits and that exciting number of ten!**

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**Chapter 6: Sunrise to Sunset**

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**_Northuldra Theme: The Northuldra - Christophe Beck (From Frozen 2 OST/Score)_**

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Elsa still cherished the warmth, even though she was now alone in the tent. Like the warmth of a sunbeam lingering over a hollow in a childhood bed, Honeymaren's presence lingered in the tent even after she had left that morning. Like a calming breeze, sweeping away the detritus of unloaded hurt and unspoken pain.

They had spent the night talking. Talking, about dreams and fears, about the future. Talked, most of all, about secrets long buried.

"It's like I don't know my father anymore." Elsa had stared at her hands, pale and soft. "Anna and I, we feel like—we're lost children again, looking for answers."

"You are descended from one of our oldest families." She remembered Honeymaren's voice as she had rubbed the purple scarf between her fingers, the keepsake from Queen Idunna. "And your mother, she chose to love your father even though he came from the enemy."

"My father knew about this, let this happen for as long as it did!" A small flurry of frost burst from Elsa's hands, before Honeymaren's gentle touch on her wrist dispelled it. "And he was going to explain it to us—I'm sure he was! If only, if at the time, when they went to sea—"

Honeymaren's touch turned into a light grip on her wrist. The shepherdess' face was now just a smear of watercolour against a blur of light.

"Why didn't they tell me where they were going?" Elsa whispered, as a tear rolled from each eye like a watery pearl. "Why didn't—_why didn't they take me with them?_"

"Elsa?" Honeymaren's presence shifted closer, her warmth nearby.

"I'm the reason they're dead!" Elsa managed to blurt, before she found herself seized in a hug.

"_Elsa_! You can't blame yourself for something you couldn't control!" Honeymaren cradled her head close. "What happened—the rift between the Northuldra and Arendelle, the dam, the Mist, the broken link with the spirits—all took place before you or Anna were even born. And when the time came for you to take your place, you did!"

Honeymaren turned Elsa's face gently, with a finger under her chin. "Look, look outside."

Beyond the entrance of the tent, the sun poured its radiant light over the cookpots lying atop extinguished fires, sunbeams stretching over the fields where the wildflowers were beginning to bud. The light lingered over the shapes of the Northuldra beginning their trek southward, bringing their goods towards Arendelle. Carried in the wind were their distant voices, singing an old pastoral hymn.

A violet flame danced playfully along the trees, the herald of the mischievous salamander-like _Bruni_, as the wind danced and shimmied through the branches.

"_We are free now._ The spirits are free too. And it's because of you both." Honeymaren grasped Elsa by both hands. "And whatever you or Anna choose to do—I believe, no, _I am sure_, that it will be the right thing."

Elsa rubbed away the tears from her eyes. Dark thoughts lingered, in the periphery of her mind. But with the rising sun, even they too began to dissipate. Leaving only Honeymaren's warmth by her side, her reassuring presence never receding.

"I've talked about this with Anna," Elsa spoke finally. "She said pretty much the same things."

"I guess it needed to be said twice." Honeymaren smiled.

Elsa giggled, choking back a sob building in her throat. "More like _seventeen _times. Over and over, I'll fall into the darkness again. And then over and over, Anna would be there. Throwing me a rope. Pulling me up. Setting me on my feet again." A sigh escaped her lips, parting the pillows of vermillion. "I just wish I would stop falling again."

Honeymaren gripped Elsa by her shoulder. "Yelana always said that strength lies not in avoiding the fall, but in getting back up afterwards. If so, you are the strongest person I know of."

They had talked long into the night, of other things. The Northuldra rebuilding and reclaiming their land, reconnecting with lost cousin tribes deep in the woods that had been separated for decades. Arendelle beginning its new reign under Queen Anna, who was beginning to feel the pressures of governance and legislation ("_I told her. I told her! All those times it was 'Elsa you're too serious! Elsa you need to relax more!' Now she knows what it feels like!"_). And drawing closer to home, they talked about the upcoming wedding. Kristoff, the mountain man from humble beginnings, soon to marry the ruler of Arendelle herself. Elsa wondered if Kristoff would be able to last an hour in a full vest and suit for the duration of the ceremony. Honeymaren doubted he would last ten minutes.

They talked, each conversation and joke like the lighting of a candle, staving off the darkness that lingered at the edge. And when the sun finally rose, and Honeymaren left on her errand to visit the distant Snow Hazel tribe of the Northuldra, Elsa found that the air had lifted and her heart was heavy no more.

The Snow Queen rose, and walked from her tent.

It was a new day, and there was work to be done.

* * *

The sun was low over the horizon, dying rays swallowed up by the gathering clouds cascading down from the mountain peaks.

"Are you sure you won't stay longer, Honeymaren?"

The young shepherdess smiled, as she tied the knot on her satchel. "I'm afraid not, Olle. Elder Yelana is waiting for me—and so is Elsa." A flush of red bloomed over her cheeks, just for the briefest moment, like a sunbeam on her soft features.

"I can still hardly believe it." Olle nibbled on a stick of cinnamon. "A being blessed with such powerful magic—and of Arendellian blood, no less!" A thick thumb brushed away the crumb of bread at the edge of his lips, the remnant of their evening meal. "She knows of our customs, then? Our ways?"

"Yelana has been a good teacher." Honeymaren nodded.

"Good, good." The end of the cinnamon stick disappeared again into Olle's mouth. "It would be well that this young witch is reminded of her place."

The shepherdess stiffened. "_I'm sorry?_"

"Never forget that it is the Northuldra who first communed with the great spirits of these northern lands, and it is us who understand them the best." He flicked a speck of cheese from the birch leaf insignia on his maroon cloak.

"She knows that, Olle—" Honeymaren could feel the heat rising on her cheeks.

"She is an _outsider_, Honeymaren." Olle glowered. "She is of Northern stock and Runeard's line. Magic may flow in her veins, but so too does the blood of those arrogant Northern rulers."

"That's not fair!" Honeymaren's fist balled. "Elsa is kind and compassionate. She is _nothing _like Runeard. She was the one who restored the connection between our world and the world of the spirits. She saved us, saved Arendelle, saved the forest, and freed us all! _How could you say that?_"

"Because you think in years, while I think in decades, Honeymaren!" Olle stabbed the cinnamon stick into the ground between them. "She holds the power now, and yes, she is kind and good. But _she is not one of us_. How many, do you think, will flock to her, to witness her power, to offer _worship?_ Oh yes, yes." He held up a hand, as the shepherdess bristled. "She would decline—could decline—could present a face of humility. But the fact is that she will increase, while Yelana will fade further and further into the background, and soon she will be swallowed up, and this _Elsa _will have the Northuldra in the palm of her hand."

"You don't know her, Olle." Honeymaren's eyebrows narrowed. "You don't know a thing about her. Why won't you come with me, to meet her? To talk with her, get to know her for yourself?"

"Oh, she's beautiful, I'm sure. Stunning as a goddess, from what I hear." Olle smirked, a corner of his moustache rising. "But it's _Yelana _I'm concerned about. Lately the tribes and families of the Northuldra—they have been moving further away, have they not?"

"The spring is coming, and the snow is melting in many places. Some of the families are spreading out to look for good land."

"Is that what Yelana told you?" Olle sipped from his earthenware cup.

Honeymaren only stared back. Stiff, resentful.

"Did you think Yelana really sent you here to ask me if my reindeer herds were doing well?" Olle lowered the cup. "Did you actually believe that?"

A finger lifted off the rim of the cup. "She sent you here to gauge my loyalty, Honeymaren. She's losing control over the tribes. There are whispers, here and there. Many do not believe in her leadership anymore."

Honeymaren squared her shoulders. "I believe in her. I believe in Yelana, and I believe in Elsa. And if you would just—_just!—_give both of them a chance, you would believe in them too."

The chieftain sighed. A tired sound, air escaping from pursed lips. A conversation exhausted.

"I wish you well on your journey, Honeymaren. I'll have a few of our boys walk you back to your camp." He rose to his feet.

Honeymaren watched as he disappeared beneath the flap of the tent entrance. Only then, did she allow her fury and frustration to show themselves fully.

_That stubborn, unkind, old—_

Her hands balled up and swum in the air in unkind gestures, as her face contorted. _He wouldn't even listen! It's like he's only talking to hear the sound of his own voice!_

If only she could just lasso some of these stubborn old ones like Olle, and drag them out of their tents so that they could actually see the world!

Still, there was the journey back. And at the end of it, good food and a warm fire. Yelana's assuring presence, and Elsa's smile. The comforts of home—and the people that _make _it home. Listening to Elsa's stories by a roaring fire, watching the stars spin overhead.

She almost didn't hear Olle stepping back in. It wasn't until his great bulk obscured the light from the fires outside that she straightened up.

"Olle, I can show myself out." Honeymaren stood to her feet, hefting her satchel over her shoulder in a smooth motion.

Olle did not answer.

He did not speak at all, from his open mouth, with dark giblets hanging from it like thick ropes of cinnamon syrup. It wasn't until his lips tried to move, and his hands went to his throat, that she noticed the arrowhead sticking out from his mouth like a grotesque second tongue.

Honeymaren felt the pounding of drums in her head, felt the rush of blood away from her fingers. Smelled it—spilling of the dark red blood into the soil. Heard—her ears finally coming back to life, as if she was rising from some deep river—the whistling outside, and the screams.

And when Olle crashed to the ground, like a termite-eaten oak crumpling at the trunk, she saw the plume of the arrow that had buried itself in the back of his neck.

"Attack—" her voice wouldn't obey. Her lungs couldn't push the air out. But she scrambled anyways, on hands and feet, until she could reach the entrance of the tent.

Honeymaren screamed with all the force in her lungs.

"_We're under attack!_"

* * *

**Portraying conflict is always a challenging and fulfilling endeavor. Societies and communities never exist as a single monolith, no matter how united or accepting that community seems, and the Northuldra would be no different. It is through conflict, whether violent or otherwise, that one can truly explore the undercurrent of cultural and ideological differences between the strata of society. Plus, it gives me an excuse to write (or practice writing) gripping, engaging, and tight dialogue.**

**Let me know if I succeeded!**

**Preview for next chapter: Rain.**


	7. Chapter 7: The Sky is Awake

**This will probably be the chapter that either alienates all my readers, or draws them into the story well and proper. What is sure is that this marks the point from which there is no going back.**

**Leave your reviews, your thoughts, your outraged protests, if you please.**

* * *

**Chapter 7: The Sky is Awake**

* * *

**_Steppe Theme: _**_**Okna Tsahan Zam - Eejin Duun (Kalmyk Folk Song)**_

* * *

Snowflakes battered his face like a swarm, each one like a mayfly dying in a wet smear across his cheeks. Hunched forward, his knees gripping the sides of his mount, the wet scent of horse mingling with forest dew.

To his right, the dark shape of Qorchi seemed to mingle with the jagged shadows, long black fingers extending from the clusters of conical tents gathered in the field like so many flocks of sheep.

That black shape moved, time and again, changing its contour. Qorchi's movements were almost too quick. Bow to the hand, arrow to the bow. Nock, draw, loose. Just the barest hint of exertion, the most minimal shift of balance in the saddle, and yet another life snuffed out by that powerful superweapon born of the Eastern steppes—the composite bow. Made from the humblest of ingredients—birch wood, bark, bone, horn, and animal glue—into a weapon to kill empires.

Chagan would never be Qorchi's equal. On foot, he could perhaps fight the old wolf to a standstill. But in the saddle, and in a contest with the bow—Chagan might as well be fighting the mountain of Khan Tengri itself. Each decisive movement, each arrow loosed—and Chagan was watching the past unfold. The might of the Oirat Khanate, sweeping across the steppes again, imbued in the body of the Kalmyk warrior which still carried their standard in his spirit.

The dim starlight reflected off the brass ring on Qorchi's right thumb, as it swept over the bowstring. His collarbone pulled back to compensate for his bad shoulder, the knobbed and crooked thumb hooking over the twine in the ancient 'Mongol draw', the string slipping almost effortlessly forwards with each release. Again. And again. And as each missile plunged outwards into the dark, Chagan knew that another life had been snuffed out.

The raiders stormed onwards, sweeping in a large arc around the camp. Light and dark combined and laced together in a dizzying lattice, the shadow of trees interspersed with the light of so many campfires. Snow exploded in waves across the hard frozen ground, churned and agitated with the pounding of hooves.

They were close enough now. Close enough, to hear the screams.

It stirred within Chagan, crawling like a long-legged spider down his spine, spreading through his limbs. Fear. Tangible, visceral, tight against his heart—fear, heavy in the air.

He had spoken with Qorchi, at the setting of the sun. No simple skirmish, this was—never before had the steppe people attempted an assault of this magnitude. And Chagan repeated what he heard, that the forest people outnumbered them ten to one.

The old rider had simply smirked. "So, too, do the sheep outnumber the wolves."

In the moment, Chagan's limbs grew light. His eyes keen.

No. _No, _this was fear—but not from him. Not from Chagan, or any of his nine comrades. This was the _enemy_'s fear, and Chagan could taste and smell it in the air like the aroma of bitter blood-iron or the musk of reindeer in heat, rising and foaming all around them. And he felt his own heart react involuntarily, the wolf rising to the howling of his own pack. Unbeknownst to him, his lips peeled back and his teeth drew in a snarl.

This was it. Here, now, was the spirit of the steppes, reborn from the hearts of an enslaved people. The untamed and unbridled wolf whose litter of pups had brought so many kingdoms to their knees from east to west, who had forged a legacy of conquest and domination so unbroken that every settled civilization held the ancestral memory of the demons on horseback.

Chagan's soul stirred, and his heart howled like a devil.

Qorchi raised his voice.

The old war cry.

"_Daichi Tengri! _The sky is awake!"

And as one, the riders behind Chagan bellowed. "_The sky is awake!_"

* * *

They charged forward, horses breathing hard, spittle flying in the wind. The formation tightened. Each rider was almost an arm's width apart from the other, riding in pace in triangular formation with Qorchi at the very tip.

The long shadows and bright fires closed in. Dazzling light, hissing smoke. The smell of ash. Smell of reindeer urine, used to cure leather. Smell of fear.

Chagan tightened his grip on the reins.

_You are not hunting deer anymore._

And then they plunged, like a dagger, into the Northuldra camp.

Chagan's view was only that of the rider to each side of him. Beyond their dark shapes, the world swirled in colour and scent. Bright plumes of fire, dark walls of reindeer leather. Qorchi loosed his arrows again and again, never breaking pace.

The long-knife bounced against his thigh with each rise and fall of his mount. To his side, he heard sounds. Bone crunching beneath blunt force. Steel slicing through wet flesh and breaking free with the muffled bloody noise of escaping air, as the sword broke suction from the wound.

Chagan's bow rattled against his back along with his quiver of arrows. He was far from a bad shot, but he knew better than to draw—in the middle of the formation, he couldn't trust himself to shoot without hitting any one of his comrades to the side.

_Stay where you are. Trust in your elders, to your front and to your sides. Support them if you must, but do not get in their way._

_Watch and learn._

He saw a grey shape fall from his side. His eyes only managed to catch the patchwork of a Northuldra scarf wrapped against a shoulder, before the shape disappeared beneath his horse's hooves with a soft crunch like a dried leaf beneath a boot.

Wetness splashed against his cloak from either side. Spraying in fine mists, or erupting in thick viscous jets from black convulsing shapes to the periphery of his vision.

Chagan followed Qorchi's lead. A calming hand on his horse's neck—steadying it against the onslaught of sound and colour.

And then they were out. Cool forest air, night all around them, starlight above. Long shadows now behind them, enrapturing their own shapes in ominous black.

Voices behind now. No longer screams of terror or pain. Now—

Screams of rage. Mounting. Gathering. Multiplying.

They were but ten riders.

Qorchi paused only but a second. "_Araagsha!_"

Their pace quickened. The camp was behind them, but only just. Many more shadows rose up from behind, lengthening like spears, moving like a forest.

Retreat. Retreat, now that the element of surprise was gone.

And then Chagan felt his world turn. Turn upwards first, higher and higher, till the tapestry of stars was in his face and the tips of the trees was beneath him. Lurching dangerously upwards, the rushing of air in his ears combining with the terrified whinny of his mount.

He remembered, with exquisite detail, the feeling of his feet slipping from the stirrups like sleet off a mountain face.

And then the snow was everywhere. Crowding his nostrils with each breath, entombing his body.

Pain burst through his head, his bones, his ribcage. He could not tell if it was air escaping from his lungs, or the fading whinnies of his horse making good on its own escape, its rider abandoned.

_You are not hunting deer._

He willed strength to his limbs. Against the cold. Against the panic.

_Deer don't fight back._

He rolled to his side just in time, as the black shadow of a club hurtled into his vision.

* * *

Honeymaren was soaked. All across her tunic, seeping into her trousers, pooling inside her boots, sloshing in her pockets. Running in thick rivulets over her face and shoulders. She didn't know till then, how much a body could bleed. Could not conceive even of living breathing human beings turned into fountains spraying thick dark soup from dark stumps where limbs once were.

She stumbled, crawled, staggered, pushed through the rows and rows of shrieking bodies mangled and maimed, her mind reeling against the insanity. Her eyes refusing to close, treacherous messengers—sending image after image of bright red and dead pallor, of mud and soil mingled with exposed bone, until her overwhelmed brain teetered on the brink of collapse.

A child clung to the bosom of his father, screaming his name over and over. His head only a half-skull, cleaved neatly at the seam of his mouth to the back of his neck.

A Northuldra woman sitting at the mouth of her tent, staring downwards in bemused shock, with a calmness eerie and more horrific than any scream of terror. Simply pushing softly at the mass of intestines disentangling from the wound in her belly.

Something had spurred her forward. Charging through the sheer hell of tents set ablaze and the shrieking of the wounded, pushing her against the tidal wave of fear and confusion. Something guided her towards the demons of her nightmares, stark and ominous in the night.

And something had compelled her to swing her club. Swing it, and feel it crack against the hardness of a horse's body, with a force that nearly unbalanced her.

The horse had fallen. The horse had rolled, sprung to its feet, and galloped away. The rider was still in the snow.

Olle's clan had awoken. Death had torn through them with shock and terror, but now their courage had risen. Their camp was under attack. Around, she could see the men and women of the tribe. Brandishing clubs, slings, and harpoons.

The Northuldra were peaceful. They were not harmless.

Honeymaren strode forward, head throbbing, heart jabbering fit to burst within her ribcage, gripping the wooden club with cold half-frozen fingers that felt like dull rubber welded to her arms. Swung it, hard as she could, eyes closed shut, at the ground—

Snow splashed upwards from empty ground.

He was up now. Standing, straightening.

Black eyes stared from under a blood-flecked hood, streams of melted snow staining his brown tunic, down to his sleeves soaked in crimson. Knees bent, muscles held in tension, boots digging into the snow.

Like a leopard, poised for the kill.

* * *

The forest people were gathered now. And for the first time, he saw them. Saw their full number. Tens, dozens, hundreds, arrayed in fur clothing and wielding the tools of their trade. The firelight danced over the tips of harpoons and the polished heads of fearsome war-clubs.

The people whose cursed presence haunted his own family for years. Those who had brought the terrible Mist, blighting the land. Those who were responsible, he knew—for Atuya being a widow, for him and his siblings growing up fatherless.

They came now. Against him, and only him. Behind him lay miles and miles of empty snow, past the edge of the woods.

He had half begun to draw his bow when he felt a light weight bouncing against the back of his knee. Pulled upwards—and found the snapped fragment of his recurve bow, hanging on pathetically by the remnant of the bowstring.

Chagan tossed the ruined bow aside. The long-knife slid from its sheath.

He had to sell his life dearly. Make good on Qorchi's escape, to ensure the raiding party would be able to accomplish his mission.

_Khan Tengri, witness your son._

Chagan adjusted his grip on the long-knife, feeling the smooth warm wood roll against his fingers. Testing its weight, feeling the familiarity of his muscles preparing to kill.

_Let him not be ashamed in the sight of his ancestors._

He might never see his mother again. Never see Borte or Batu; never hear their laughter, never feel them pulling at his hair and pretending to ride his back like he was a horse.

Then so be it.

They would never be ashamed of how he died.

The forest woman now faced him. Her war club was held in front of her, like a shepherdess bracing her staff against a wolf. The same look in her blood-flecked eyes. Fear, gleaming like a gem, behind the snarling teeth and clenched jaws of forced courage in the face of death.

Chagan knew for certain that he was dead.

He stilled his heart, preparing the soul for its long journey. Summoning with his strength, the resolve he needed to ensure that if he was to die, he was taking this shepherdess bitch along with him.

The wolf within him howled, as he raised his voice to the eternal sky.

"_Uukhai!_"

* * *

_**Steppe Theme: Scourge of God (Total War Attila OST)**_

* * *

"That's Chagan down there." The old Acatziri rider's eyes were good, even at his age. "_Tengri _above, that is one brave lad."

Qorchi did not need to watch. Merely steadied his mount, hands firmly on the reins. "He will live or die as he will. He knew the cost. And he will pay it."

He was not looking at Chagan, witnessing perhaps the last moments of the young man he had known since he was a bare-assed boy running between the _gers _being chased by his mother with a ladle. He did not deign to watch the last stand of a fellow tribesman who would likely be torn limb from limb while alive.

No. The old wolf was watching, instead, the enemy. Stirring like a bear roused from sleep by cuts and arrow wounds, lumbering out of the camp in its vast number. Confused, staggered, wounded—the casualties of the nomadic raid lay visible in the trail of bodies that delineated the path their raiding party had taken through the camp. Like a wounded animal; enraged, seeking a target for its impotent fury. Seeing the only focus for the hurt and the pain—Chagan, standing alone on that snowy plain.

Like a sieve, the large Northuldra herd separated. Young fighters advanced, sling-staffs and harpoons in hand, distilling the warriors among their number from the meeker ones tending to their wounded or grieving uselessly within the camp.

Timing. That, and that above all, would bring victory.

Chagan would have his role to play after all.

"Loose the doves." Qorchi turned to the old bearded rider beside him, who nodded.

"Just like hunting." A gap-toothed grin in return, seeming like the maw of a tiger.

The old game, played over and over in desolated fields from Kaifeng to Kiev. Remembered well, by those who studied the ways of war.

_How would you defeat an enemy who stays in their camp or behind their walls?_

_You give them a reason to come into the open._

* * *

Honeymaren gripped the club. The beads of sweat forming on her brow had mixed with the dried blood as they rolled off her forehead. Crimson drops smeared across her cheeks and hands. She dared not blink, even as they stung her lashes and burned at the corners of her eyes. Watching, watching the every move of this enemy.

The long-knife, a foot in length and slightly curved along its cutting edge, swung easily with each rotation of his wrist. Held backwards, like the curled stinger of a scorpion, while his free arm shielded his body. His body was low, crouched forward, knees bent. Like a butcher approaching a helpless carcass strung up on a meat hook.

And then suddenly, a scream came up from the crowd.

"Jorge! Jorge!" A woman shrieked, somewhere to her left.

Honeymaren dared, only for a second, to turn her eyes to her right.

Something was rushing across the plain, towards them. Bright and flickering, erratic in its movements, like a firefly darting through the night.

A man, hands bound behind his back, running with abandon like a stricken deer. And bound to his back, a tall branch of deadwood wrapped in rags, set aflame. Flaming high, like the tail of a comet, trailing light across the snowy plain.

More names were called out. More screams, more wails of abject horror.

More shapes across the plain. People running, strapped to burning branches like so many moving beacons. A human wave of light.

Friends. Family. Lovers.

The crowd of Northuldra surged forward.

And then the rain came.

Rain, not of water, but of wood and steel-points.

The foremost man sank to the ground suddenly, the flames blooming around his body jerking to a halt. Pitifully, painfully, he crawled forward. And then a second arrow punched through his skull, and he moved no more.

Across the plain, the running prey fell. Crumpled under the hail of arrows, cut down like reindeer in flight.

Honeymaren felt rough shoulders shove past her, felt the club nearly spring loose from her hand as the mass of bodies behind her burst forward. The two combatants—the young shepherdess, and the blade-wielding demon—were forgotten. All was forgotten, all but the sight of their very own people, in their desperate flight to safety.

Warriors ran forward, harpoons held aloft, screaming and charging at an enemy they could not see. Fathers and brothers called out words of encouragement and panicked exhortations, urging the helpless shapes running towards them to run faster and faster still. Mothers and sisters screamed out names, called for them to come closer, to come back.

And then, above all others, a voice. Not from their midst, but across the plain, amplified by the walls of the valley, echoing over the clear sky. Reverberating with the skill of old shepherds and the later steppe nomads, the same skill enshrined in their art of _khoomei_, or throat-singing.

A single word, each syllable drawn out, booming through the air.

"_Yavyaa!_"

* * *

_Kharash_.

Prisoners driven forward before the start of a battle, or siege. Driven first by spears and swords, and the threat of death. And then, seeing their own lines and countrymen approach ahead, driven by hope of safety and salvation.

Arrow barrages would stop, as archers refused to loose on their own people. Battle lines would be in disarray, as the well-dressed ranks began to break once soldiers began to recognize friends or relatives among the oncoming prisoners. Or perhaps the lines held, and the archers were stiffened and chivvied into unleashing their barrages regardless—each volley burying itself into the mass of prisoners was one less to be sent against the steppe riders, and the psychological effect of murdering your own helpless kin was as effective as any poison.

It had worked for the Xiongnu, against the old kingdom of Han. It had worked for Temujin, later called Chinggis Khaan, as it did for his fearsome generals Subutai and Jebei. And it worked even later on, for that fierce warlord Timur the Lame, called also Tamerlane by his enemies.

On the fields beyond the enchanted forest, among the mass of disarrayed Northuldra, it worked once again.

At Qorchi's signal, the Blue Talon exploded forward, from every direction. Hidden behind trees or rocky outcroppings, waiting patiently with well-rested horses, freshly-strung bows and full quivers, the remaining riders now sprung the encirclement.

The nomads charged forward in a hail of deadly arrows. Closing the net, sealing the confused and paralysed Northuldra into a tightening pocket. Throats were pierced, hearts ruptured, bowels voided, lungs spewed air and frothy pink blood into open valve-like wounds.

Like cornered animals driven by blind panic, the forest people surged forwards. Directionless, leaderless, motivated by fury and fighting spirit. For all they were, the Northuldra were people of the land. The same land that gave both gentle cool rivers and fierce rushing torrents that crushed rocks to pebbles.

They swung clubs, loosed pebbles, threw their spears. Roaring all the while, until they sounded like the mighty voice of the great northern river itself.

And the nomads whirled away. Dancing out of reach of bullets hurled from slings, darting away as wooden javelins fell short.

In the saddle, the steppe riders turned, feet skillfully hooking their stirrups. Their arms losing none of their dexterity as they loosed their arrows backwards, in the infamous 'Parthian shot' which had broken so many armies of the settled world.

The Northuldra wavered, the wave fluctuated as the mass staggered from its fresh wounds.

And then the nomads charged forwards again, in a fresh wave.

Again and again. Like a blacksmith hammering a piece of steel on his anvil, like a wave pounding mercilessly at a shipwreck until it was reduced to smithereens. Volley after volley, disciplined and well-timed. Waiting in the trees were fresh mounts, tied to posts, and new quivers filled with yet more arrows. As one wave provided a withering cover of arrows, another turned to remount and resupply.

It was when the Northuldra finally broke and began the massed panicked flight that Qorchi sent in the lancers. The youngest members of the Blue Talon, comprising its shock cavalry. Brash youngsters dressed only in tunics and trousers, wielding the seven-foot lance. They thundered onto the plain, screaming and ululating verses from old songs and prayers, plunging into the forest people like daggers.

Lances speared through and through, killing one, breaking through bone and flesh, and then impaling another. Tearing into the fleeing forest people, turning the white ground crimson. Here and there some fell, brought down by some Northuldra in their blind fury, and were lost as wooden clubs crushed their skulls. But the vast majority of the Northuldra sought only escape—and in their flight, driven by hopes of retreat, they were truly hopeless.

Horse archers closed in, closing ranks together with the lancers. Where the massacre ceased at range, it continued in melee. Continued, until all the lances were splintered or embedded in bodies, until all the arrows were spent, until the long-knives were blunt after hacking and hewing at meat and bone. Continued, until the people of the sun had surrendered the offering of their life's blood to _Tengri_, the everlasting sky.

The Snow Hazel tribe was no more.

* * *

Honeymaren knew nothing, saw nothing of the carnage just beyond her line of sight. Only held her club close, watching with frantic eyes as her enemy continued to fix his gaze on her even as the chaos erupted all around. Bodies eddied and rushed around her, howling and shrieking until her ears were almost deaf.

A split second of distraction, as an arrow fell close to her and she winced, eyes half-closing. That pause was all it took. The demon pounced forward, knife swinging like the claws of a wolf.

She swung back with the club, and felt empty air. The enemy was quick, stepping aside with almost contemptuous ease as her club missed his head. Then the knife flew nearer, thrusting and stabbing at her body.

Honeymaren was driven backwards. Her club was no longer being used for attack; now her only thoughts were to hold it between her and her opponent. It was pointless to counterattack—the difference in the weight of their weapons was such that he could strike three or four times in the time Honeymaren could swing her club once.

The shepherdess stepped backwards, again and again, as the demon snarled and hacked away at her. A slash here, a stab there. She felt wetness down the sleeve of her right arm. Stole a glance; where the fabric had split, a shallow cut was oozing fresh blood.

Rage erupted suddenly from her belly. Honeymaren burst forward, closing the distance. The club thrust forward like a spear.

White hot pain lanced through her arm, and she knew without looking that the knife had impaled her.

But her momentum carried her forward. The head of the club was now a deadly point, thrust forward with raw strength and violent impulse.

She had a view of the enemy's eyes widening in surprise, right before the wooden head slammed into his forehead like a hammer.

The man staggered, his foot slipping. It was all the time she needed. Her right arm hung uselessly at her side, but she had enough strength—just—to make the second swing.

The club cracked against his side, and she heard the involuntary gasp of wind escaping his lungs as his ribs snapped. He sank to the ground, on his knees.

Before Honeymaren slammed her boot down on his face, she could still see the raw glower of pure killing intent on his bruised face.

* * *

Honeymaren stood in the snow, fighting the pain. Like long needles of ice thrust through her meat and bone, piercing her marrow, turning her right arm into a useless weight. Her fingers felt numb and disconnected. Bleary, blood-flecked, tear-stung eyes lingered on the hilt of the long-knife still buried in her arm, weeping blood down the sleeve of her ruined tunic.

It was only then that she realized how quiet it was.

The screaming had stopped. The sickening sounds of combat had ceased. All around her lay a number of dead beyond counting, the mangled and mutilated bodies of her own people. Hacked to pieces, impaled on lances, pierced by arrows. Lying in a red soup that seemed to spread for miles—snow melted by still-warm corpses disgorging life's blood into the soil.

She looked up, at the sound of hooves crunching on snow.

Tall iron-like statues atop savage-looking horses, standing amidst the falling snow, illuminated by torch-light. Like ancient demons come to life—the wind riders, the Wild Hunt of King Vold—with soulless empty eyes, staring at her.

Honeymaren felt her knees give way beneath her, and she sank to the ground.

The lead rider looked. First at her, and then the fallen warrior on the ground, her club still lying next to his body. Faintly, but steadily, his chest rose and fell, the small tuft of hot breath at his lips turning slowly in the cold air.

She did not understand him, when he spoke.

"_Take her_," commanded Qorchi.


	8. Chapter 8: Hakkaa Päälle

**Chapter 8: _H__akkaa Päälle_**

* * *

The snowman looked pensive, rubbing his round chin with a hand made from a twig, individual fingers tapping lightly. Mattias found it _extremely _unnerving.

"So let me get this straight," Olaf mused aloud. "You've just found out that your grandfather, King Runeard, used a bunch of slaves to build the Great Dam. And that later once the magical Mist fell over the forest, they were trapped in there together with everyone else."

"That's right, Olaf." Anna nodded.

"And your father, King Agnarr, found out about this, and never told you about it. But he wrote a whole box full of letters about his confessions instead of telling you about it, for fifteen years."

"Is it weird that this snowman is so articulate?" Mattias whispered to no one in particular.

"But now, it turns out that King Agnarr found a group of these slaves that had been separated from the others, and ended up _outside _of the Mist when it fell. And he's been hiding and protecting them all the while he was alive, _also_ telling nobody about it." Olaf scratched the carrot that formed his nose. "And now you're going to look for this group of slaves that your father has been protecting, except you don't really know where they are."

Anna sighed, clutching her cloak tighter. "It's—_hard—_to figure out what's the next right thing to do. I'm not too sure myself—and Elsa, she's trying to speak to the spirits, to find out what she can sense through them. But this is right—this _feels _right. If my father started this, no matter what reason he had for keeping it secret—I should finish it."

Olaf frowned, the pebble of his tooth biting down on snow. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I would say this is a very unlikely string of contrived coincidences that seem to occur for the sake of advancing the plot, with the box of your father's letters being used as a narrative device."

Four pairs of blank eyes stared back at him.

"But on the plus side—" Olaf's eyes widened and his grin lit up. "—I _love _adventures! So where do we go? When do we head out?" He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "_And who will be our expendable side character who will meet their death early in the journey in order to raise the stakes for the others and show how serious the situation is?_"

"Anna, are you sure about this?" Kristoff put a hand under her chin, his voice soft. "It's just—you've been under a lot of stress lately, after taking the crown. This journey sounds dangerous. Maybe I could go with Lieutenant Mattias."

To his side, Sven pawed the ground, nodding in agreement.

"Thanks honey." Anna pecked him on the cheek, and a blush of pink blossomed around the mark left by her lips. "But this is something I need to do. As Queen—I need to right the wrong that was done under the king. Both—_both _kings."

Her eyes met Mattias'. The aging lieutenant bowed, his eyes downcast. "I am with you, your Majesty. Wherever you will go." He exhaled. "I have a part in this old shame. I should have a part in expunging it."

"I'm with you, Anna." Kristoff straightened up, feeling for the ice axe at his side. "We can take my wagon. I'll just need a minute to stock up on supplies."

"Should we let Elsa know?" Olaf asked. "She might want to come along."

"We shouldn't be gone long, not if I'm reading these letters right." Anna thumbed through the handful of dog-eared letters in her hands. "I'll let Elsa do her thing with the spirits. Anyways, we have Gale to send any messages if it comes down to it."

"Sounds like a fateful decision that may have unexpected long-term ramifications down the line." Olaf rubbed his chin. "But then again, _we get to go on an adventure!_"

"Your Majesty," Mattias interjected. "Did your father—did King Agnarr—mention where he had hid these people? The once-slaves who had built the dam?"

Anna unfolded the letter again. "Well, that's the thing. He didn't really leave clues about a _where_."

Her eyes ran down the lines, the letter that she had read and re-read over the night.

"He talked about a _who_."

* * *

_My dear daughters,_

_I was once young. The throne had fallen to me overnight, not in the pomp of ceremony or the glory of coronation, but in the dark of night with grief, loss and confusion. Still mourning my father, still reeling from the shock of losing the loyal guards that I had known since my childhood—I felt no joy, no pride. I felt nothing but pain and uncertainty, as in the deep of night, the crown of the crocus was placed upon my head and I became King Agnarr of Arendelle._

_Our kingdom was in tatters. We had lost our most capable leader and nearly our entire military might. We were like a house stripped of its walls, open to attack from so many enemies. I couldn't sleep, could barely eat. The horrifying thought—that I could be the last monarch upon the throne of Arendelle, before its downfall—tormented me like a banshee._

_And yet through these uncertain times, there were two things that anchored me and kept me sane in the storm. Certain certainties that I held on to, when all seemed to flounder and I couldn't find my direction; the guiding stars when I knew not what the next right thing was._

_The first, was Idunna, your mother. That carefree young girl who seemed to hold the energy of the sun in her heart, whose presence illuminated me, whose compassion touched me and convinced me that I could turn our legacy of betrayal and oppression into one of love and acceptance._

_Now, let me tell you about the second._

* * *

_**Arendelle Theme: The Politics and the Life - Daniel Pemberton (King Arthur: Legend of the Sword OST)**_

* * *

**Thirty Years Ago**

"Brace!"

The shock reverberated throughout the structure, causing the wooden walls to shake like trees in a storm.

"So, King Agnes, come here often?" The teeth were almost unnaturally white against the redness of his wild and unkempt beard.

"It's _Agnarr_." He winced as another shower of dust sprayed from the ceiling, painting his hair and forehead a sickly grey. "And I wish I wasn't here at all."

"_Brace!"_

"Why not?" The teeth wouldn't stop smiling. "What's not to like about this weather, _ja_? It rains six days in a week, and on the seven it _hails_. Long beautiful days of marching, followed by enough itty bitty hot soup to fit in my hand." Outside, the howling was getting louder and louder. "And the locals of Dunbroch! _Ja, _I do believe they love us!"

The red-beard put his ear dramatically to the gap between the wooden planks.

Agnarr winced at the loud thud, but the large man had already drawn his head back hastily. The young king stared, for some time, at the arrowhead that had embedded itself in the wooden gap. Sharp, fierce. Barbed points facing backwards. To rip flesh as it was pulled out, hooking backwards onto meaty muscle, avulsing it like some twisted scarlet flower blooming. And so many delightful things to catch on those hooks too. Nerves, tendons, maybe an artery or two, if you were lucky—

The slap nearly knocked the breath out of him. "_Yoohoo_, your Majesty! Wake up! Don't dwell on the doom and gloom. It is only war! Nothing to it. We kill the enemy and go home, or we die and then we go on to another home."

In another time, Agnarr would have glowered at such an uncouth ruffian who dared lay a hand on the royal house of Arendelle. In the now, packed shoulder to shoulder like sardines in a can with dusty, sweaty, unwashed men-at-arms, he was only another man in a shield wall. Decked as he was in the simply infantry mail hauberk and plate, few men probably knew their king was among them. Fewer still cared.

"_Brace!_"

He glanced up at the large man, sideburns running down the sides of his chin like a lion's mane, cradling the head of his large axe with a wolfish grin. Staring straight ahead, even as the structure creaked and rumbled around them like a ship in a storm.

The truth is, power is illusory, none more so than _royal _power. The wild red-beard, and his fellow _hakkapeliitta _mercenaries, as well as the Royal Guard around him, were the ones who bolstered his authority and credibility. And without them—these vicious, war-hungry veterans—Agnarr's crown was worth about as much as the dirt now raining upon his head.

He could see it. Through the slats. The walls, looming closer.

"I'm Agnarr, by the way." He turned sideways, towards the mountain of a man.

"_Ja_, you told me already, remember?" The red-beard cocked his head. "Just keep paying us, and we will call you anything you like, _my king_."

"_Brace!_"

Agnarr winced, as another shock rippled through the wood. "Still, I would very much like to know the name of the man at whose side I will soon fight."

The burly mercenary thumped his cuirass. "Jaska Tamminen, at your service." He adjusted his grip on his axe, just as the dark shadow of the fortress walls obscured all light and plunged them into darkness. "Now, let's show these Scots a proper Nordic welcome, _ja?_"

The final shock tore through the structure, the entire unwieldy thing lurching, as the noise finally rose to a deafening crescendo. Howling, screaming, the horde of enemy baying for blood.

And before them, the wall lowered. The ropes hissed against the pulleys—

The ramp of the siege tower fell at last, onto the surface of the fortress battlement, revealing the grey skies and the sight of a thousand howling, painted warriors.

King Agnarr of Arendelle leapt forward, and plunged headlong into hell.

* * *

Jaska had killed his first man before Agnarr even realised he was out of the siege tower. The giant had simply stepped out, swung the massive Finnish axe with no visible effort, and cleaved a Dunbroch warrior's head from his shoulders. The painted, half-naked torso lingered upright for a moment before collapsing forward, arterial blood spurting from the stump where a head once sat.

"_Hakkaa päälle_!" He screamed, raising his axe like a banner, and his cry was answered by his brothers in arms.

_Hack them up._

Agnarr slammed his shield against the face of a painted warrior, thrusting his arming sword over the rim of his shield. He felt the hard irregular resistance of steel biting into bone, before his blade slipped free—he had no idea what he hit, only that the body disappeared into the thresher as more and more of the Dunbroch warriors stampeded forward.

Beside him, he felt the press of men as the Arendellian Royal Guard crossed blades with the wild warriors of the highlands. Shields of crucible steel slammed into light wicker shields; monstrous Scottish claymores clashed against light Nordic arming swords.

There was no shield wall, no formation. This was pitched battle, every man for himself. Orders were unnecessary—no room for clever maneuvers, and no need for anything more intelligent than to kill, kill, _kill_—

Agnarr's back pressed against the hard stone edge of a battlement just as his gaze met the wild eyes of a painted warrior. Blazing green, brow smeared with ochre, hair spiked with lime, shrieking with wide open jaws lined with yellow teeth.

The crash against his shield jarred his arm all the way to the shoulder. The Celt hacked away with his curved _rhomphaia_, unhinged and undeterred. Devoid of armor, his bare chest revealing the markings of sacred tattoos inked in deep red across his chest and arms.

Agnarr's blood chilled in his veins as he felt his back drag along the battlement, his footing beginning to slip.

_Berserker._

Fearsome warriors of the Celts, wild men of the bear cult, worshippers of Mor'du, that legendary prince who once turned into a bear to slay his enemies. Glad-of-war, shield-biters, blood drinkers! As likely to kill friend as foe, unhinged and untamed, no more able to be commanded or disciplined than one could discipline the wind or waves.

Agnarr kept his shield ahead of him. Feeling each shock from the strike of that fearsome curved weapon, the _rhompaia_ wielded like a two-handed scythe. His own sword lay impotent in his right hand, hidden behind his shield. If he could just swing it forward—!

_Don't be stupid, boy. Have I taught you nothing?_

It was as if he was speaking aloud once more. And over the din of battle, Agnarr heard him as clear as a clarion call.

_Keep your shield in front of you if you know what's good for you!_

A voice as savage as the warrior who now gibbered and screamed before Agnarr, now spoke in his mind. A voice made even more savage, perhaps, by the fact that Agnarr knew the man himself. Knew every blow from his hand, every harsh correction on the training grounds. The hammer blows of a hard king, battering the fragility of his young son into the unyielding steel that would one day inherit the crown.

_He will tire eventually. Then strike!_

Indeed, the crashing blows against his shield were lessening in intensity. Peering above the rim of his heater shield, he watched the berserker. Beads of sweat were forming on his painted forehead, and his breathing was ragged and harsh, the outline of his ribs straining against skin.

_Your shield is not a child's blanket for your cowardice, Agnarr. Your shield is a __**weapon**__. Use it!_

An explosion of breath erupted from Agnarr's lips as he stepped forward, his shield arm curling against his body, before slamming it forward. The rim of the shield caught against the painted warrior's lips, and as Agnarr ripped it downwards, a terrible gash opened on his cheek.

_Good!_

The Celt shrieked from bloodied teeth, raising his _rhomphaia_—but Agnarr was close, too close. There was no room to lift the unwieldy weapon. In that space of only inches between combatants—there was only Agnarr's arming sword.

_Finish it!_

No glorious sweeping stroke, no showmanship of blade mastery. Agnarr simply thrust the blade forwards, into the warrior's open chest, and withdrew it quickly. The angry triangular wound hissed like a serpent, bellowing frothy pink blood, and Agnarr knew the enemy was dead.

_Messy, boy. Way too messy._

Agnarr watched the warrior stumble backwards, eyes bulging, breath stolen suddenly by the sucking chest wound. He sank backwards—and then the melee trampled over him and he was gone.

Agnarr took a few breaths, and said in his heart to the phantom of King Runeard what he could never dare to say to the man himself.

_Damn you father, you bitter son of a bitch. That was good enough!_

"Good, good, young king!" A hand clapped on his shoulder and Agnarr felt his knee give way beneath the force. "The boys and I were about to jump in, but you looked like you had the situation under control, _ja_?"

Jaska smiled from under a veil of blood that smeared his brow down to his chin and beard like war paint, grinning from ear-to-ear, his war axe dyed red along with the front of his cuirass.

Agnarr would have chastised him, and his mercenaries, for not coming to the aid of the king—but held his tongue. Even amidst the chaos of battle, the Finns and his own Royal Guard closest to him bestowed a different look on him. He had felt cold disdain from the mercenaries; stiff and reserved respect from his own guard. Now—

The eyes of the savage Finns were warm. Friendly, even. And his Royal Guard were smiling. A few bowed.

The crown of Arendelle was steeped in history, but that history, in turn, was steeped in blood. Sweep away the decorum, the ancestral respect for royalty, the family pedigree—and Agnarr's blood was that of the old Viking warlords who commanded the respect and loyalty of their followers in the most ancient and tested method.

The king had plunged into the heat of the crucible, and emerged alive. Agnarr had been baptized in fire.

The walls shook, as a distant crash jolted Agnarr back to action.

"Well, well!" Jaska bellowed. "It looks like Aillen's _schiltron_ has decided to join the assault after all! I do believe those are the gates falling!"

Agnarr leaned over the rampart. Below, the long pikes of their Celtic allies clustered at the gate as they battled for control of the entrance to the keep.

"Sire! It's the Teulu cavalry! They've broken into the inner keep!" A Royal Guard called out over the roar of battle.

"Finally!" Another barked. "I was beginning to think we'd have to take this fortress by ourselves! These Celts have no sense of punctuality!"

"Late for meetings, late for dinner—" Agnarr couldn't help himself. "—and late for battle!"

The laughter that erupted from his bloodied, bruised, savage band of soldiers, was music to his ears. Like a final trumpet call, sealing their approval of his leadership—and their loyalty to him.

"Forward!" Agnarr shouted, sword held aloft. "To the keep!"

The king of Arendelle joined the wave of his troops, surging up the battlements. The tide had begun to turn. Sensing defeat and encirclement, the savagery and ferocity of the rebels had given way to fear.

Agnarr hacked with his sword, spilling life's blood; his shield a hammer, pounding at fingers and noses, working in tandem. The brutality of training, the endless hours of relentless practice—his muscles came to life, remembering. All the while, the voice in his head cursed, admonished, warned, and instructed. His sword arm was light, his eyes keen, his blood like liquid fire in his veins. This was it—_this_, the true legacy of Arendelle, of the Nordic race of warriors that brought fear throughout the coasts of Europe.

_Flee for your lives, you people of the coast! The Norse are coming!_

Jaska was a cyclone of fury, tearing at the enemy like a bear. His axe swept aside the enemy, crushing skulls and splitting enemy bodies crosswise from shoulder to navel. In his wake, the Royal Guard advanced in step with the _hakkapeliitta._ Surging up to the keep, like an unstoppable wave of steel.

"_Hakkaa päälle!"_

"Arendelle for ever!"

And Agnarr, crying through dry lips and hoarse throat. "Finish this, and let's sleep in warm beds tonight!"

Like a hammer, the troops of Arendelle proved themselves. Throwing themselves against the force of the highlands—and the highlands broke first.

* * *

It ended at last. In the innermost chamber of the keep, over a carpet of Dunbroch rebels hacked up, disemboweled, dismembered, the battle ended with a pathetic troop of terrified rebels throwing down their arms.

Cineadh was already dead. Once the tide of battle had turned and the gate had been breached, his own treacherous guard had cut him down and hacked off his head, offering it to Agnarr as a peace offering in return for their own lives. The grisly ornament now lay on the table, his eyes half open and glazed over, his open mouth and lolling tongue gathering a swarm of lazy flies.

It was over.

Sitting at the edge of a stone steps, his bloodied and dented shield at his side, Agnarr finally gave in to exhaustion. His sword was covered in gore and offal, and he knew he had to clean and polish it—but not yet. Not yet. After a while, after some rest…

"You did good today, _ja_?" Jaska again, with the ever-present grin.

Agnarr found himself smiling. "We did. _We _did good."

"Good fight we had, very enjoyable. Might even give you a discount next time you hire us, eh?"

The king of Arendelle chuckled. "I'll hold you to it, Jaska."

As the red-beard lumbered away to the baths, singing an old marching song to himself, the gruff voice within Agnarr spoke again.

_Good work._

Agnarr closed his eyes.

_Thank you, Papa._

* * *

With the capture of Dunbroch, the civil war was over. Aillen the Fiery was now the undisputed ruler over the highlands. His coronation was held a week later, attended by representatives from every fen and glen. Many of them were supporters of Cineadh's rebellion—but then again, why not let bygones be bygones? After all, their new ruler was certainly capable, having managed to secure such warlike and vicious allies in these strange Northerners.

So Aillen was crowned now, as true High King of the highlands and over Dunbroch, and what pedigree! Of the bloodline of the famous Queen Merida the Brave, by way of her second brother. What more could the highlanders ask for, than such an illustrious ancestry?

Then again, another tale had once been told by Cineadh MacPherson's supporters, that long ago Merida's own mother Queen Elinor had been turned into a bear by an old curse, and while in bear form, had been mounted by a wild bear, and following that, had given birth to a cub in the woods. When the curse was lifted and Elinor regained her human form, the bear cub, in turn, had turned into a boy. That boy had grown up to become king of Yr Hen Ogledd, the Old North Kingdom. Cineadh had claimed descent from that same king, and hence argued for an equal claim to the throne of Dunbroch.

(But then again, Cineadh's head was now perched outside Aillen's throne room and nothing more than a bait for flies. What pedigree did dead men have? And besides, what a preposterous tale of magic bears and old curses!)

The newly-crowned King Aillen was quick to offer his gratitude and a place of highest honour in the feast to the foreign King Agnarr of Arendelle, who had supported his rightful cause in the civil war.

Cineadh's hatred for the Nordic kingdoms and enmity towards Arendelle's previous king were all brushed aside as the new Highland King extended his magnanimity, toast after toast, speech after speech. All the attendees of the celebration feast were reminded, again and again, that this Northern king had marched his own army across the sea to support their _rightful_ cause, that he had been the first to leap from the siege tower into battle, and that his sword was the one that had cleaved Cineadh's treacherous head from his shoulders. _All hail the king!_

"Wrong on all three counts," Agnarr muttered as he scooped a dollop of haggis onto his slice of sourdough bread. "Barely two hundred soldiers doesn't make an army. I wasn't the first onto the battlements. And Cineadh's own soldiers killed him before we even got there."

"You've never fought a war before, _ja?_" Jaska wolfed down on a lamb shank, holding it in one greasy hand. "Don't let the truth get in the way of a good story. Your own legend will grow, until you were the one who single-handedly cut your way through the enemy horde into the fortress keep."

Agnarr smirked, chewing into his bread. "Why not have me break the castle gate by myself with only a kick from my foot?"

"What? No!" Jaska wiped the stain of gravy from his lips. "You've got to be realistic. _You_ can't possibly make anything more than a dent on the gates! _Me_, on the other hand—ha! Two kicks, maybe three!"

Agnarr joined him in laughter, which echoed around the table, till the entire gathering of Arendellians and Finns were bellowing in mirth.

The gathered Celts watched those savage Northmen, and concluded that any troop of soldiers that could joke and laugh with each other on the aftermath of such a vicious war was best left alone. And placated with as many gifts as they could spare.

Agnarr left Dunbroch another week later, after a formal agreement with King Aillen on _very _favourable terms.

_One_. Dunbroch and Arendelle, once sworn enemies, would become allies. As Arendelle lent her swords to Aillen, so too would Dunbroch lend its spears to Arendelle, should the need arise.

_Two_. The new trade agreement would see new ships dock at Arendelle's port very soon, opening up a new front on the market—five hundred thousand more potential consumers for Arendellian goods.

_Three. _Arendelle would offer up the island of Inis Annwn—a barren, inhospitable rock in the Southern Sea historically owned by Arendelle but never colonized—to the new king of Dunbroch, for construction of a new sea fort and dock. Three hundred miles from Arendelle, the isle was all but useless; now in the hands of Aillen, it would become a potent control point for the Southern Sea, helping safeguard Arendelle's southbound shipping from the threat of the Barbary pirates. (Arendellian ships would, of course, be exempted from paying the port tax.)

He had only refused one other term in the agreement—the offer of Aillen's own daughter Etain, in marriage to strengthen their alliance. Agnarr had turned down the offer—with ample assurances, of course, that Etain was fair and beautiful as the dawn—on the grounds that he was already betrothed.

Aillen was surprised, and asked if this great princess was the beautiful daughter of some great foreign kingdom.

Agnarr had smiled. "She is the daughter of the land itself. And more than that, no king can ask for."

As his ship now sailed, northward where the wind grew colder and the sky lighter, he felt her heart call to his own. As clear as the song of a siren, bringing on the north wind the memory of dark brown hair falling across alabaster-smooth cheeks, of almond eyes bearing in them the kindness and goodwill that was so lacking in his past—and yet, so rich and abundant in his future.

He felt the horrors of battle peel away from him, like the shedding of an old rotten garment, giving way to longing and newness.

_Idunna_. _I'm coming home._

* * *

**Arendelle, Present Day**

The Dagger watched. Waited.

Perched atop the highest castle in the kingdom, like a hawk, he surveyed all before him. Wreathed in the power of his own element, light itself folded and curved around him, and he was no more visible to the naked eye than the path of a butterfly through the air.

The ancient words throbbed—_throbbed, _literally, carved into his very flesh, their meaning engraved just as surely in his mind and heart. The sacred word of Gurun, the Old Khan of the Desert who avenged all wrongs as surely as day turned to night—and whose instrument was the Dagger, unstoppable and unassailable.

_Seek the crown, in twain divided._

_Slay the witch, who is no queen._

_Preserve the people, lost and afraid._

_Restore._

The _aluurchin _could cut through a hundred men with impunity. The Dagger, a thousand. Endless oceans of blood could be spilled in the service of Gurun without even incurring a flicker of emotion in the heart of those who dwelt in the _Elsen Shuurga_.

But to cut once—and only once—that, too, was the way of the _aluurchin_. To spill all the blood that was demanded—and not a drop more.

He had been summoned to avenge a wrong. But now—now he had to seek the one responsible for the wrong. No easy task, not in this foreign land where the voice of Gurun was dim and the ways of the steppe people were alien and unwelcome.

Patience. The true and oldest friend of the _aluurchin_. When waiting, as peaceful and docile as a lamb. When striking, as swift and deadly as the thunderbolt.

And until he found his mark—he would stay his blade.

The voice called, and he felt the searing sensation along his chest. The characters of Old Uyghur burned and throbbed, the pull tangible and irresistible.

Below, he saw a sleigh pulled by a heavy furred deer-like creature, leaving the gates of the great city. Four people—and as his eyes lingered over one of them, the words burned again.

_Seek the crown, in twain divided._

The Dagger stepped forward, and in a second—never existed.


	9. Chapter 9: The Strength of One Warrior

**Chapter 9: The Strength of One Warrior**

* * *

_**Steppe Theme: Genghis Khan War Theme|Traditional Mongolian Long Song (Urtiin Duu)| Civilization V OST**_

* * *

"_Gok Tengri, _the everlasting sky, hide the scent of your children from the winds…"

Deep maroon drops fell from the thin emaciated wrist, spilling onto the sand below. Stained dark and almost-black, the river-sand began to crystallize above the heat of the sacred fire. Clouds of incense wafted around the _ger _like an army of ghosts, dispersing to execute the will of the shaman.

"_Ukulan_, lord of water and flowing rivers, conceal the taste of your servants from the water-spirits…"

He blinked twice, warding off the dizziness and palpitations that heralded the approaching limits of his body's endurance. Ancient remedies and herbal supplements had strengthened him somewhat in his preparation many days before the ritual, thickening his blood and toughening his heart—but eighty years were eighty years still. His body struggled with the loss of blood, drop by drop, over the night—he knew he could sustain it not much longer.

"_Nachigai_, mother earth, shield the sound of our hooves from the ears of our enemies…"

Discipline, inner strength, and the steadiness of breath. Naranbaatar had to hold on—_had to_—for in the accursed forest, the spirits would see all. How could any move in their domain, without incurring their wrath? Against the might of the demons of the four elements, Qorchi's raid would be doomed—

Unless the shaman stood in the gap, invoking magic more ancient than even _they_.

The ancient steppe magic would blind and deafen the spirits, shrouding the fearless riders of the Blue Talon in a mist of concealment and confusion. Stifling the air, silencing their sound through the ground, rendering the water still and unmoving, choking the fire spirit from advancing. To the four spirits of the forest, Qorchi and his riders would be as good as invisible—so long as Naranbaatar could sustain the offering of blood.

"_Erlik, _great khan of all the dead, ride with us this night, and turn the bones of our enemies to soft clay and their bowels to water…"

He pressed the vein on his wrist. The blood had begun to clot, and the rubbery texture of the vessel was collapsing. With his finger, he milked the vein downwards, dislodging the few discrete droplets of anemic blood, seeing them drip onto the bowl of sand—and feeling his life's blood turn to magic in the air.

Fire blazed down the floor of his tent, turning his robes a bright orange, bringing unwelcome illumination.

Dawn.

The blood had stopped flowing at last. He would bleed no more, one way or another.

The shaman allowed himself to rest, finally. Collapsed, rather, upon his threadbare shift, his heart pounding, his skin cool and pale, his mouth dry. He forced himself to swallow the bitter concoction from his leather wineskin, gazing at the sunrise.

"Qorchi," he rasped to the air, gazing southwards, "I can give no more. Make good on your attack—and may _Tengri _guide your steps."

* * *

Pain like hot iron brands that pressed deeper and deeper. Muscle being peeled away from bone, pulled and pulled harder until it _ripped_, every single fiber like a screaming voice, joining in a chorus of absolute agony—

Honeymaren had screamed. And screamed, and screamed, her throat tearing at the effort of the endless noise until she was sure that she bled inside, she was _certain _that the fragile cords within her neck had ripped like the seam of an old cloth and blood was rolling down her throat into her stomach—

Unable to move, unable to see, blindfolded and restrained, tortured beyond anything she could endure, only pain, pain, _pain—_

Sinking deeper into dream and mist, pulled back again and again to consciousness by fresh agony rolling like a wave. Like a fish struggling to submerge into the deep river only to be inexorably tugged back to the surface by the hook in its mouth, she languished at the border between darkness and blinding unbearable light—

Honeymaren didn't know when she awoke, when her senses began to finally work again. Raw nerves communicating the feel of the earth under her knees, the ropes chafing into her bleeding wrists, the cloth wrapped tightly around her eyes. The scent of horse dung, of smoke and ash—and of blood.

Then the blindfold was ripped from her face, and she fell forwards.

The Northuldra shepherdess inhaled deeply, her body all but broken. Unkempt and matted hair fell around her shoulders, her face caked with soot and dust. A droplet of blood dried and crusted upon her swollen lower lip. Her skull felt like a cauldron of soup, swilling and sloshing with each turn of her heavy head, her eyes clouded and blurred.

Something fell in front of her, bouncing once against the soil before landing next to her knee.

Honeymaren stared from dry and tearing eyes.

A long knife, slender and sharp. Stained brown, up to the hilt, in dried blood.

"Abaqa tells me you are lucky." A voice from behind. Deep, old. "The blade missed your nerves and arteries. You will have use of your arm yet."

Only now did Honeymaren become aware of the tight-fitting fabric over her right arm. Craning her neck, as far to her right as she could, she stared at the bandage, wet with blood and reeking of herbal poultice. The limb throbbed and stung—but it was a dull ache in the background now.

Boots tapped against the hard, frozen earth within the darkness of the tent, drawing closer. To Honeymaren's sensitive ears and shredded nerves, they were like thunderclaps.

A shadow passed before her, eclipsing the slivers of light peeking in from gaps in the tent fabric.

"Look at me," the voice commanded. The words were accented, over-enunciated.

Honeymaren lifted her head.

Like a statue carved from wood, grey and ashen. Honeymaren's eyes lingered over his powerful frame, lean muscles underneath a leather tunic and overcoat. A curved bow hung from his back, as did a quiver of arrows. Reedy eyes peered from underneath a hood lined with fur, scars mingling with the hard lines of age, disappearing into the cover of a short beard.

The fear came again. Cold water pouring down her aching shoulders down her spine, paralyzing, numbing.

"I learned the Northern tongue," the man spoke, "as a slave, forty years ago. I was chained and bound by those from that great city by the sea, _Araan-dool. _I survived long enough to speak it better than my steppe brethren. Because of that, the Northerners made me an intermediary, to pass on their messages and instructions to my fellow slaves."

A boot lifted from the ground, scattering a small shower of snow and dried soil. "I began to gain their trust, over weeks and months. And eventually, one night—they relaxed themselves enough, that I was able to smuggle my family out of the gates of the slave camp."

The boots stamped the ground, as the man walked around Honeymaren. "My wife begged me to come, even as my two daughters clung to my side. But I would not—I _could _not. The Northerners would notice my absence, and punish my brethren for it. But them—_them_, I could save."

His voice was behind her now. Like a cold wind at her defenseless neck, his presence yapping at her like a wolf. "I can still feel Ilnara grasping my coat, tears staining her eyes. Her voice soft like wind chimes, and the hope in her words as she spoke of a forest people who dwelled to the west, who lived in union with nature. A kind people, gentle—she saw _hope_. Hope for my daughters, hope for her, if not hope for myself."

Honeymaren strained her neck. But she could not turn far enough to see him, only his shadow as he paced behind. "And I urged her. To run, to flee to the lands of the forest people, to save our family and build a new future. Far, far from pain and slavery, towards freedom, towards hope."

His footfalls drew closer now.

"Do you know what I found, when I finally made my way to the western wood?"

His voice was low, soft, almost a growl. "There was barely anything left to bury. What was left of Ilnara could fit in a satchel—charred, blackened bones, curled up into a heap that I would never have recognized if it was not for the ring on her finger. And my dear Erhi and Sarnai—my daughters I loved more than my own two eyes—crushed and smeared in a bloody pulp, mixed together so I could not tell which one of their bones belonged to which."

He was almost directly behind Honeymaren now. And she could feel it—as tangible as anything. The hatred.

"Your forest spirits did that to my family. At the instigation of your people—you _Northuldra_, you who protect the forest and your borders. Three innocent souls fled to your lands to seek refuge—and you massacred them without mercy."

Honeymaren breathed at last, her lips moving before her brain could catch up—"No, we would never—!"

"_Be silent_!" The nomad thundered, and the sound thrashed against her tender eardrums and nearly drove her to her knees. "Did you think I was speaking to you, you foolish girl? Barely thirty winters old, you were not even conceived yet!" His voice lowered again. "I am speaking to your _tribe. _To that accursed people who even now threaten our existence simply by existing. You—you, simply by being _you_, represent everything that we loathe with the depths of our hearts."

Faint like a distant whine, rising to a peak, before dropping back down. Honeymaren strained her ears, but she could hear no more. She felt the man turn to his side, to the opening of the round tent.

"Your people are being gathered up as we speak. Those who resist are even now being tied down and trampled by our horses." He paused, as if to listen. "Those who survive the trampling will be fed alive to our dogs."

The shepherdess' throat went dry, her ears still capturing every sound from outside. Screams, shrieks, desperate pleas. Cracks, like dried twigs breaking under a boot in the autumn. And the deafening, deafening silence that followed.

Her heart was going to burst.

"We could kill ten times the number we did today, and repeat this slaughter a hundred times over. And it would still fail to sate the hatred in our hearts for your race, _Northuldra_."

She flinched, tears stinging her lashes as her eyelids drew shut. Her skin crawled, her body trembled—vibrating uncontrollably, every fibre a string on a harp played by a madman.

Cold and hard fingers curled around her neck.

"Now. I seek your leader, the one who leads all your tribes." His breath was nearly at her ear. "I seek the one called Yelana."

Honeymaren hoped that her body had continued to tremble, that the stranger had mistaken her flinching for fear of him and his promise of violence. Hoped, with all her heart, that she had not just betrayed Yelana.

"I don't know who that is." She found her voice at last.

"No?" The fingers closed, only a slight bit more.

"I don't—I'm from Olle's tribe. And he's dead." She forced strength into the strained nerves of her throat. "You killed him. With an arrow."

The lie tumbled unsteadily from her lips. Honeymaren stared downwards, and for the first time was glad that she could not see her captor.

The fingers arced like the talons of a hawk, sharp fingernails digging into her skin. And then, closer now, warm breath on her neck. And a sharp inhalation, so close to her ear that she could swear his nose was right against her earlobe.

Honeymaren closed her eyes tight.

"That smell," he growled. "Pink lavender. Grows by the mouth of the great river."

Then the hands roamed lower, crossing to her shoulder. Spreading out, fingers pressing into her tunic.

"This far north, the tribes make use of reindeer skin for their clothing." Like spiders, his hands crept over her shoulders. "But this—this is wool. New, barely a few weeks old. And the closest sheep-pens lie to the south, beyond the wood, in the territory of the Northerners."

Honeymaren's heart thudded against her ribs, so hard that she could swear she could hear it—_he _could hear it—salt stung against her lips, as droplets of sweat rolled down her forehead onto her lips. Her tongue felt like a heavy, dry carcass in her mouth, rotting and stale.

"And what is this?"

Honeymaren turned, ever so slightly, to her right.

Her eyes went wide, even as her heart stopped beating for that single moment.

His thumb was bent with a slight deformity, adorned with a clouded brass ring, and his index finger was long and twig-like. Pinched between them was—

A single strand of white hair.

"Smooth, silk-like." His fingers rubbed the strand between them. "Soft. And white like snow. And—"

His tongue snaked out from between leathery lips. Like some misshapen worm, pressing itself against the strand of hair, the smallest drop of saliva lingering on the tips of his fingers.

"—blackcurrant."

That night, she had laid her head against Honeymaren's shoulder, as they spoke in whispers, watching the stars whirl overhead. Closed her eyes as the wind caressed her white hair, fairer and smoother than even the finest silk, the mug of blackcurrant tea between her slender dove-like hands.

The shepherdess, for the first time, wished for death.

Death, before more torture, before she could be broken. Death, before she would betray Yelana—and Elsa. She would not live with herself as a traitor to her people and those she loved—she would not live at all.

"It has been so many decades." The nomad stared at the white hair with an eagle's eye. "Black hair turns to white—and yet, it is too smooth, too perfect."

She felt his presence recede.

"You lie poorly, Northuldra. You are from the south, near the great river, and live in lands which border that great city of the Northerners. Your tribe sees almost daily contact with the Northerners through trade and travel. And you have passed through these woods for at least an entire day, to meet with the leader of the tribe we have just slain." Boots stepping upon the soil, around her. "You enjoy a position of trust within the tribe—and as for the tribe you belong to, there is only one who could be your leader."

And then he was in front of her again. Hardened, leathery face with keen eyes boring into her, roving up and down her face and body. No secret safe, no lie hidden—the eyes that hunted reindeer and tracked hawks across the sky would not be deceived by clumsy misdirection.

"I will ask you again, Northuldra." The long-knife that had laid upon the floor was now in his hand. "_Where is Yelana_?"

Honeymaren said nothing. Stared ahead, and hoped that she would bleed out fast enough to never feel the pain.

The knife now approached her throat. As steady as stone, the ancient hand gripping its hilt never quivering, even in the cold. "Will you tell me where your leader is?"

No point in lying now. No point in stalling, the story had come to an end. The rat was trapped in the corner, clawing at the walls. She would not die like a rat, desperately pleading, lying fervently like a drowning mouse pawing and splashing at turbid water.

"_I will not_." Honeymaren looked death in the eyes, and spat out her words of defiance.

She closed her eyes shut. Tried not to hear the faint screams outside, tried to blot out the smell of drying coppery blood and smoldering ash.

Tried to think, instead, of deep blue eyes, of the warmth of a hearth fire, and stars overhead.

_I'm sorry, Elsa._

_I'm sorry I won't be coming back._

* * *

And then the feeling of cold steel was gone.

Honeymaren swallowed, staring at the deep blackness of the back of her eyelids.

"Good." His voice came again.

Her eyes opened.

The long-knife was gone. The man's fingers rubbed his chin, his lips curling in a smirk.

"There are certain rules for the life of a warrior." The old nomad scratched at a fresh scab over his cheek. "Even among enemies, there are laws that must be respected. These were enshrined in the great _Yassa _of the mightiest of our warlords, Chinggis Khaan."

"_Put to death any who betrays their Khan_, _for you shall not suffer a traitor to live._" he intoned. "There is none who hates Yelana more than I do. But had you given her up, had you betrayed her whereabouts—I would have slit your throat before the breath had left your lungs."

Honeymaren dared not breathe. Only kept herself still, looking ahead. Her next breath could still be her last.

The man stroked the bristles of his beard. "You have shown great courage; you have fought one of our own, and won." His lips peeled back from off-white teeth. "You gave Chagan quite a beating. He is in his tent now, nursing his wounds and his battered pride."

Honeymaren looked at the ground, willing her face to stay straight and expressionless.

"The steppe people respect strength. We absorb what is strong, and discard what is weak. Chagan's defeat is without shame, for with his bravery he helped secure our victory."

"_Bravery_? Is that what you call it?" Honeymaren found her voice again. Her blood rose, thudding through her veins. In spite of her fear—she found the inner core of her anger. "You _killed_ innocent people! Hundreds of them who had no way of fighting back! Men, women, children!"

The nomad's face was stone-like, his expression never changing. She might as well have been a gull spitting at a rock in the sea.

"There are no innocents in the steppe way of war." He crossed his arms, the limbs thick and knotted like the trunks of young trees. "The fighting man is as much a part of the machine of war as the wife who repairs his clothes, the children who do his labour, and the ox that pulls his plough and hence feeds his household. In battle—they must all be destroyed."

He had not raised his voice, nor changed any inflection in his tone. It was said easily and calmly, his eyes tepid and unmoving, as if he had not just condoned the mass slaughter of entire families with as much emotion as reciting a grocery list.

"Monster," Honeymaren whispered. "You are a monster—you are _all _monsters."

She expected her terrible captor to take offense, and had almost begun to flinch from the flash of anger she imagined she saw in his eyes. She had not expected the wide smile which now looked far more unsettling. He was like a wolf baring his fangs.

"It seems that you are well acquainted with your situation, Northuldra." He adjusted the sleeves on his coat. "Those of your people who survived and who have wisely chosen to submit, have now been spread out among our number. We have sustained losses in the fighting—few losses, but losses nonetheless. Your people will replace these casualties."

The jerk of his head was barely perceptible, but Honeymaren suddenly found herself hauled to her feet by strong arms—appearing out of nowhere, making no sound with their feet, two guards were now dragging her upwards with no concern for her pain or weakness.

"Chagan lies wounded. Alive, but in need of rest and care." The nomad nodded at one of the guards, who cut the ropes around her wrists. "You have cost us the strength of one warrior, Northuldra. You will return us the strength of one warrior."

The old man uncrossed his arms at last. "You will tend to Chagan, to the warrior you have maimed. He, likewise, has been charged with overseeing you in captivity. You will fight alongside him when he rides with the Blue Talon."

He strode closer, as Honeymaren struggled to stay on her feet, supported partially by the grips of the guards to either side. "Understand the stakes, Northuldra. Should you escape, Chagan will kill you or suffer death in your place. Should he be slain, you will follow him in death."

He was nearly nose-to-nose with her. Now, Honeymaren realised just how tall he was—and how many scars he bore on his face. Spears, swords, arrows—all leaving their mark on his naked face like a tapestry of war and violence.

"Do you remember the pain you felt, the agony before you awoke?"

_Like claws tearing at her skin, like nails being driven deep into her bones, hammers pounding and pounding and __**pounding**__ and never stopping—_

"You had been drugged with pain-dulling herbs, held down as gently as we could afford, and the knife had been removed from your arm by the best surgeon in our tribe. Do you understand, Northuldra? That agony you felt, that torture—that was us being _kind_."

His thumb pressed against her chin, lifting up her head as easily as if he were flipping a coin.

"My name," he said, "is Qorchi of the Blue Talon. I hold the power of life and death over you. Remember, Northuldra, and remember well."

He gestured to the guards, and spoke in the Turkic tongue.

"_Take her away._"

* * *

**A piece of wisdom once shared by an author: If you can think of something you wouldn't want to happen to you, your loved ones, or your friends, then you have found something worth writing about.**

**I had endeavored to find the worst possible fate for Honeymaren, short of her death. This was the outcome.**

**Do leave your reviews, for they are read with anticipation and gratitude.**


	10. Chapter 10: Kintsugi and Khanda

**For everyone who's reviewed so far, thank you so much for leaving your thoughts!**

**Pip and Co: I'm glad I managed to capture your attention and make it creepy enough!**

**Pusha: Runeard does come off as a bit of a bastard, doesn't he? And yet in a way, his actions did pave the way for a more stable and prosperous Arendelle.**

**Yubima-chan: I hope my writing grows to be more engaging than confusing!**

**And a very, extremely special shoutout to simplesnowflake, whose support and encouragement throughout the growth of this fanfic has really sustained me through the writing process. Her thoughtful words and feedback have oftentimes been the battering ram to smash my writer's block and get me writing again. Her own writing sets a standard that dangles like a dream I can reach but not quite hold. If you do one thing today, once you catch up with The White Hun, go read _The Sky is Awake, _and once you're done, go read _The Next Unknown._ (Okay, that counts as two.) You want to know what great writing is like? I'm pointing you to it.**

* * *

**In the meantime, the fact that perfection is unattainable is no excuse not to try.**

**So here's me trying.**

* * *

**Chapter 10: _Kintsugi and Khanda_**

* * *

_Her Majesty Queen Anna of the_ Illustrious_ Kingdom of Arendelle,_

_Our sincerest greeting, and our congratulations on your most auspicious coronation, etc._

_It is with great regret that I must inform you of our inability to renew our prior arrangement pertaining to transit of goods at our port of Isaura and our continued export agreement. Following the ouster of the usurper and pretender Ioannis, our esteemed leader Nikephoros Laskaris has by this third week of spring taken his rightful place as Strategos of the Theme of Cheimonas. Henceforth, all prior agreements formed during the false reign of the pretender Ioannis are declared null and void, although the Theme of Cheimonas remains open to any negotiation—_

The letter flew aside with a flick of the wrist, landing after a short flight atop a pile of similarly folded and crinkled missives and messages. Kai was already getting good at it—he could discard a letter without even looking to see where it landed.

The steward of Arendelle pinched the bridge of his nose, the thudding fullness of his sinuses coming on in force even after his second mug of chamomile. He looked at the pristine sheets of archival paper embossed with Arendelle's coat of arms, lying alongside a neat row of black pens, and fought off an overwhelming urge to stab the stack of letters with one of the pens.

_We regret to announce a formal cessation of our supply of rubber and textiles—_

Toss.

_As we have yet to receive a reply from your court pertaining to our previous three (3) communiques, we therefore surmise that Arendelle no longer wishes to renew—_

Toss.

_We continue to profess our support for the reign of Her Majesty Queen Anna, although regrettably we are no longer able to—_

Toss.

Shake the tree, and all the birds would take flight.

It was evident how it looked to the outside world. A queen suddenly manifesting dangerous magical power, threatening foreign dignitaries, and then vanishing to the mountains—and then, an assassination attempt on not one but two sisters. A brief period of respite for three unremarkable years, and then—rumors of Arendelle coming close to destruction yet again, some say by a flood, some say by yet more magical calamity.

And then the ruler of Arendelle hastily abdicates, to be succeeded by her younger sister, whose experience in governance thus far extended to holding picnics in the fields and handing out sandwiches to children.

_Keep your kingdom and your crazy queens, I'm out of here!_

The numbers were not looking promising, to say the least. Trade at the harbor was down by fifteen percent and was projected to drop even further, once the spring winds reversed their direction and began to blow south-west come March. Arendellian ice, once a prized and much sought-after commodity, now began to languish in warehouses around Europe—ice for the preservation of foodstuffs had begun to be supplanted by the new invention, the tin can.

Kai ran a hand over his forehead, smoothing over the bare skin. The boundaries of his threadbare kingdom of hair had shrunk yet again, and the steward knew it would soon be a losing battle. Age was beginning to claim him—with age came stagnancy, and slowness of wit, and that caustic cynicism which foolish men always seemed to confuse for wisdom.

He had been cynical too, once. That land-locked duchy of Snoob had bred generation after generation of dry humorless bureaucrats who considered cynicism a _virtue_. Rank after rank of stiff-backed, stone-faced paper shufflers in double-breasted suits, packaged and dispatched to neighbouring allies with such regularity that they were as much a trade commodity as meat, or fish, or ice. Imagination, optimism, derring-do—those were obtrusive elements to be curbed and pruned. One's role was that of a perfectly crafted and polished cog, a consummate practitioner of realpolitik, serving to keep the machine of bureaucracy running at peak efficiency.

But he was more than that. He had _become _more than that—for Arendelle was the sort of place where no one could leave the same person they were when they arrived.

Nights spent cradling the timid forms of two princesses, fast asleep, from their snow-covered playroom into their beds. The dark overcast day in the chapel, watching the trails of incense smoke snaking their way heavenward, as the murmured prayers and quiet sobs filled the pews. The band of fear around his heart as he followed the procession out of the city, and stared back at the towers of Arendelle and wondered what would become of the kingdom.

But the light came, as it always did, as it always _would_. The laughter echoing through the halls, as a silver-haired sister chased her shrieking sibling with cake smeared over her nose, both no longer imprisoned by the secrets and intrigue of the past. The sinking fear, as his wide eyes witnessed the monstrous shadow of a massive tidal wave approach to consume the kingdom—dispelled in an instant, as Elsa spread her palms and her magic held command over nature. The unadulterated wonder as he sank to his knees in relief along with the gathered hosts of Arendelle, the pure humility he felt in his spirit at the thought that for all of mankind's cleverness, the world would always contain more magic and wonder than one could grasp.

No, none of those pen-pushers and stuffed shirts at their desks, in courts around Europe, would ever understand it. They were not him—and he was not them. And he was glad of it. He would no more close the gates of his heart again, than would Anna close the gates of Arendelle.

To secure the lifelines of trade that kept Arendelle moored in stability—that would be a task for the master bureaucrat of Snoob. But to protect Arendelle and the royal family—_his family—_that would be a task for Kai the steward, Kai the friend and protector of the daughters of King Agnarr, Kai the _man_.

Kai gulped down another mouthful of chamomile, and got back to work. The lost causes and dead ends, he discarded. But there was hope—_hope_, and more opportunities to be had. A message of support and affirmation of trust from the kingdom of Corona. Promising letters from trading partners in the mainland.

Still, the pile of _Yes _was dwarfed many times over, by the big pile of _No_ that Kai wished he could feed into the fireplace.

He sorted out the lifelines from the dead ends. Some replies, he could delegate to the clerks. Some needed his own personal and delicate touch.

Kai had just about begun to write, when he spotted a stray envelope separated from the rest of the pile.

He reached for it. It was easy to see how he had missed it—instead of the heavy wax seals and garish colors of various coats-of-arms, this letter was simply embossed with a simplistic black-and-white motto of a single line branching into three more. On a second look, Kai realized it was the stylized icon of the handle of a broadsword.

Three letters: GTS.

He began to read.

_To Her Royal Majesty Queen Anna of Arendelle,_

_Our heartiest congratulations on your coronation and the beginning of your new reign. As you expand your horizons and pursue new opportunities, we at Gallowglass Trading and Solutions would like to offer you our support!_

_We are a trading company based in Osterholdt and we specialize in providing solutions for your trade to blossom, whether you be a burgeoning kingdom or a trading guild. We have grown from a small traders' union to a company based in over thirty-seven cities with satisfied clients all over Europe—and the world!_

_No one key fits into every lock. And much like locks, the problems and obstacles of each client requires personalized and specialized solutions. As such, we would like to offer an opportunity for a consultation at Arendelle, to identify your core competencies as well as areas for improvement and growth. You would then be presented with a list of options for consolidation of your trading profile, all facilitated by Gallowglass Trading and Solutions. Make no mistake, you maintain autonomy and the final say at all times—you are in charge!_

_As our sincere and heartfelt coronation gift, we would like to offer you our first consultation absolutely free! Simply reply to this letter, and we would be happy to arrange a meeting at your earliest convenience._

_Once again, our heartiest congratulations, and here's to a more prosperous Arendelle with you—and with us!_

_Yours in service,_

_W., H.A. Esq._

_Chief Mercantile Officer_

Kai read the letter again, his pen tapping against his cheek as he scanned each line. He hadn't yet heard of this company—last he had heard, Osterholdt had not been doing too well. The invasion of the Duumvirate of Rustam five years ago had shattered the Swabian league like a hammer on a plate, and Osterholdt had been one of the smaller and poorer fragments suddenly finding itself an independent duchy. He couldn't imagine any trading company based in such an unremarkable locale enjoying significant success—much less being able to boast of such (likely exaggerated) accomplishments.

Still, this was one letter to go onto the pile of _Yes_. It was looking to be a depressingly small pile.

Arendelle was not a beggar, but neither could it afford to be a chooser. Even if its successes were overblown, having a trade partner planted in the heartland of Old Swabia would not hurt in securing access to the European market.

Kai would make inquiries and seek out information about this new trading company. Sniff out reviews from its clientele.

In the meantime—

He prepared a fresh sheet of paper.

_To the Chief Mercantile Officer,_

_It was my great pleasure to receive your letter—_

* * *

"I think this is a dead end, Anna." Kristoff ruffled his blonde hair as he looked down the list of crossed-out addresses. "No one named Tamminen has ever lived here."

"Mmf, mmf fff mm fffuuhh…" Anna said eloquently, scoffing down another muffin. As she walked back to the sled, she waved gratefully at the kindly old woman at the cottage who was confused at being visited by the queen herself, but cheerfully surprised and very eager to help. And just so happened to have baked a fresh batch of her finest almond muffins!

"Sorry, what?" Kristoff suddenly found a paper bag thrust into his arms. "Hang on, _did she just give you all of her muffins?_"

"I said…" Anna swallowed. "I said, it wasn't a complete waste. We know a few things now, at least. He didn't live in the city, and he definitely didn't live out here in the countryside. We've looked everywhere, and even the oldest folk don't remember anyone with his name or fitting his description."

"Huh. What about the rest of his friends? The, um, what were they called—?" Kristoff tossed a steaming muffin into Sven's open mouth.

Lieutenant Mattias thumbed through a sheaf of yellowed pages, even he reached for a muffin. "I've checked through the old housing ledgers of the _hakkapeliitta _who followed King Agnarr, and as far as we know, most of them chose to live here in Arendelle after their retirement. But Jaska Tamminen is not listed as one of them." Biting down, his mouth was suddenly flooded with warm raspberry syrup. "Wow, thish ish good."

"Anna, why is finding him so important? Why didn't your father just—well—_tell _us how to find the people that he managed to save?" Kristoff brushed a crumb from the corner of his lip.

The queen scooched over to the edge of the sled, as she chewed thoughtfully on the remaining half of her pastry. "I think he didn't want to risk it—what if someone else somehow found the letter? I think he wanted to leave the knowledge only with someone he could trust, and who I could find."

"Yeah, except now we can't find him." Kristoff exhaled, sweeping his hand over the rolling green fields and the cottages that dotted the countryside. "But what I mean is—what makes this important to _you_?"

"What do you mean?" Anna turned her head.

"I mean—Anna, I love you, and you know I'm here for you. It's just—" Kristoff scratched the back of his head. "You and Elsa have been really caught up with this whole thing, about your dad's letters and this secret in the kingdom. I'm just worried it's affecting you more than you know."

Anna cradled her chin.

"When I was a girl—I once dropped a bowl and broke it. You know? Clumsy old me." Anna chuckled, a blush across her freckles. "I was so scared, you know? I think it was a gift from an ambassador, can't remember where—Dai Viet? Goryeo? But I was so scared, I just sat there holding the broken pieces—and then Papa came in. And then I just started crying."

Her fingers closed down over Kristoff's hand, creeping over her shoulder like a reassuring kitten.

"He wasn't mad, at all. He just brushed away my tears, and he said, 'today, we'll do a little project.'"

Under her, the trickling crumbs of the cooling muffin began to attract a stream of intrepid ants.

"We brought out a bunch of things. Glitter, and glue, and some—what do you call it?—_lacquer. _Then we started to put the bowl together. It took a long time—there were so many pieces! Like, little bits as small as a stamp. It was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. It was fun, actually, come to think of it. Just—I was still sad, once we glued the whole thing back together."

Lieutenant Mattias listened, trying to chew his muffin as quietly as he could.

"We glued the bowl back—but the cracks were still there. You know, some parts the pieces didn't really come together perfectly. Like, there were gaps here and there. And it was really obvious—like, anyone who saw that bowl could tell it had been ruined. So I just sat there with glue all over my hands and started to cry again."

Anna brushed a strand of auburn from her ear. "Papa smiled at me, and said, 'Yes, we can still see the cracks. But look—the cracks are lined with gold now.' He asked me to lift the bowl up to the light—and then I saw it. _Beautiful_, light glowing in between the cracks, like fire captured in the pottery. It was...it was magical."

She smiled. "Then Papa took my gluey hands in his—they were sticky too!—and taught me his lesson. The bowl was cracked, but the cracks did not mean that it was ruined—rather, the cracks were its _history_. Me breaking the bowl, _that _became part of the bowl's story. It wasn't something to be sad over, it was something to remember. Now it was something more—it was _beautiful._"

Anna leaned against Kristoff, as his hand stroked her long tresses. "In the end, I wasn't sad anymore. And Papa said he wanted to keep the bowl with him—'because I need a reminder too, in the darkest of my nights,' he said. Only now—reading his letters, knowing what he went through, him and Mama—I think I get what he meant. And why he wanted to keep that broken bowl."

She straightened up. "Things are worth fixing. This terrible part of Arendelle's history—King Runeard, the Dam, the Northuldra, the _slaves_, the murders—they broke us apart. But we can put ourselves back together, and do what's right." Her eyes rose, across the verdant fields of green and the boundary of melting snow. "These scars may not fade, but they can become part of our history. To teach us, and warn us, and remind us."

"The first step is putting the pieces back together, and right the wrong." Anna clenched her fist. "Bringing these people back—those that were hurt by my grandfather—that's the first step. Until Arendelle steps past this dark part of our history, I don't think we'll ever really move on."

The mountaineer's arm curled around her shoulder, and pulled her close. For a moment, Anna rested against his bosom. The reassuring tempo of his heart close to her ear, as her heavy-lidded eyes took in the orange light, the sun making its way downwards to—

Wait.

_Wait._

Sunset.

_Sunset!_

"Wait, wait, we've got to get moving!" Anna leapt up suddenly. "If we don't hurry, we won't be able to cover the cottages up in the mountains!"

The muffin disappeared instantly between her lips, and then she was up again. In barely a minute, they were off again, moving further.

* * *

The Dagger had lingered in the shade of a tree, still and unmoving. Light curled and wavered around his body, his frame protected from human sight. Watched, with the ancient eyes so keen that he could track the path of a moth through the air.

_The crown, in twain divided._

The Northern Queen was young, and beautiful in her foreign way. He could sense her energy, the thud of her heartbeat through the earth. Caught her scent through the air, inhaled of it through his nostrils until he could _taste _of it like the bouquet of a wine.

_The wolf smells but once._

He would be able to track her anywhere now, even beyond the peak of Khan Tengri.

He had begun to step forward when it hit him, powerful as a rolling wave, slamming into him with such palpable force that it almost caused him to lurch—

_Magic._

He felt his own arteries pulse and the hair on his skin rise. His body bristling, reacting. The spirit of the steppes gnawing at the bit, growling at the perceived challenge of another creature in its territory.

There was strong magic. In the air, the earth, the water. He could feel the lines running through the soil, through solid earth and far beyond the shore past the sea, feel them stretching like guideposts into the mountain, up into the clouds ringing its peak.

They did not bend to his will.

The _Elsen Shuurga _could not flow into their channels, could not convey the power of Gurun. They were untamed, unconquered, and they did not obey any foreign deity, much less the Old Khan. They would give him no sight, no sense—and not even the Dagger dared to travel the _Elsen Shuurga _in the absolute darkness.

_Slay the witch, who is no queen._

The crown was divided in two. Now he knew who held the other half.

The Dagger's grip tightened over his blade.

The word formed in his mind. Unfocused thought concentrated into solid will, and he spoke it aloud through his spirit.

_Garid. _The eagle.

The mark on his shoulder ignited. Like the hook of a butcher, dragging through raw flesh and extracting its toll of blood and sand. For a lesser man, the agony would have driven him to his knees and perhaps even into the blackness of unconsciousness.

But he was the Dagger. And after his bones had been split and battered, his lungs and heart punctured by arrows, his blood drained, flayed alive, set aflame—over and over and over, till the years bled into centuries and his own nerves no longer recognized agony—he never even registered the pain.

As naturally as exhaling the breath from his lungs, he cast out the shadow of his will-sight, out through the wilds. The ley lines of the Northern land, he would not be able to penetrate yet—but he could follow them to where they converged.

His will flew like an eagle, keen sight never losing its hold upon the myriad of invisible lines. Over a hill, under a bridge, towards the mountain—no. Further down.

Further down, deep below rock, like the spikes of the points of a star—

Yes.

He knew where the heart was. To find it was easy.

To reach it—not even the strongest of the _aluurchin _could tunnel through three hundred feet of solid rock.

Fortunately, he knew something that could.

The Dagger's hand rested over the compartment within his cloak.

_Olgoi-khorkhoi._

* * *

Deep in the Gobi lived perhaps the deadliest creature to be ever given life by _Nachigai. _Its presence announced only by the faintest shift of sand across the quiescent dunes, until it struck without warning. Ploughing through the sand with razor-sharp setae along its segmented body, darting like lightning and attacking with a foul quick-acting toxin sprayed from its maw—one known to fell elephants and camels in a single blow.

The death worm.

It haunted the western wastes where khanates shriveled and collapsed in the sandstorm, feasting in the battlegrounds of old upon the rotting fat leeching from ten thousand warriors, fallen to the ambitions of Khans long dead. Hostile to all life, living proof that even the Earth-Mother could grow to hate her own children.

And to the _aluurchin—_it was their instrument of death.

A mile into the wilds near the mountain, the Dagger stopped. Knelt in the ground, at the intersection of two streams, in a hollow where the river rock cradled a small pouch of loose dirt.

The North air was cold, but light. Birds sang overhead, leaves rustled gently like wind-chimes. The Northern lights danced overhead like dervishes. The land was beautiful.

He uncorked the glass vial. Within, the thumb-sized larvae reared its fanged orifice, seeking the scent of fresh air.

The young-worm crawled, out into the open, into his bare hands. Crusted with sand, smeared with oils. Disguised from the predatory instinct present in every worm even from hatching.

Only the _aluurchin _could handle a death worm in their hands, and not die. An art that gave them almost divine status among the nomads of the western borderlands of Iran and Fars for whom sudden death amidst the dunes was an ever-present fear.

But the art hinged upon skill and concentration. A moment's lapse in control—and not even the protection of the Old Khan would guard him from the agony of the creature's bite.

He did not breathe. He remained still, as the worm's little mouth gaped and puckered. His pulse slowed. His sweat dried. He meditated, drawing his focus, diverting the heat from his palms. Soothing the worm into believing that it was once more in some cool recess deep within the sand dunes of the great wastes. The familiar meditative techniques came to him, demanding of a will and focus rivaling that of an ascetic _lama_, and yet he never broke the thread.

The Dagger was no longer sure, even now, if he could die; if the worm's venom could still kill him as it would an ordinary man of flesh and blood. What he was certain of, was that if he failed—within seconds, he would wish it could. And wish fervently.

Slowly, firmly, he grasped the worm between the two fingers of his right hand.

He pushed it, deep into the soil, like a malignant seed soon to take life.

He released his fingers. Only now, did he allow himself to breathe.

The worm would need water, at least for the first few hours of its life. To lengthen and swell, growing in the soil, sucking away every last droplet of moisture, until the rich loamy soil would be reduced to granular sand. All the while, nearly doubling in size every time hour ticked.

A day hence, and the worm's venom glands would open. Oozing the viscous violet liquid into the surrounding earth, droplet by droplet. Grass would wither, moss would fade into dust, and the life of the soil would be lost. Even pebbles and rocks would crumble into sand, as the worm began that hideous process of transforming the land into the microcosm of its birthplace.

Now, the worm would avoid water, as it now sought dryness. The Dagger had chosen this spot for that reason; intersected by two streams of snowmelt, it would limit the worm's growth and prevent it from wandering.

With the wet soil above, the worm would be left with only one direction to burrow. Downwards.

He could sense it—see it, through the sight of his will-sight. Deep below, the ley lines intersecting into a singular nexus. He sensed more—more wills. More hearts beating their subtle vibrations.

Something lived below. Many somethings.

The Dagger straightened his back, staring at the small dimple of the soil. Already, he could sense the movement of the soil, the hiss of the damp air from within, imperceptible except to the senses of the assassin.

He could see it forming at the mouth of the shallow tunnel.

Sand.

_Death comes, whether the living are ready or not._

* * *

They were too late.

By the time they made it to the trail up the North Mountain—even with Sven setting a personal record—the sun had fallen behind the peaks of the Asfjalla by the time they reached the first marker stone.

"And I thought—!" Anna grunted, stepping through the shin-high snow, "—we could—!" she tugged at her cloak, snagged on a nearby branch "—make it in time!"

"It's too dark to make a search now, Queen Anna." Lieutenant Mattias straightened as he dismounted from the sled, grunting as his back popped softly. "And it's too dark to go back down safely. I think we should find someplace to rest until daylight."

"_Yoohoo!_" The chime of bells and a cheery voice rang out in the night. "Sauna is still open, special prices all through spring!"

"Oaken!" Anna's reply was more of an exhausted breath of air from her lips.

"Hot chocolate for you and carrots for reindeer, still on sale!" The broad-shouldered man grinned from one end of his red handlebar moustache to the other. Above his head, _Wandering Oaken's Trading Post and Sauna _dangled from a clean wooden sign in garish letters.

The trading post was small, though plentifully stocked, a tiny spot of light and warmth on the face of the mountain. But to the weary and cold little group—it was a sanctuary.

"I could do with a hot drink right about now." Mattias brushed his fingers across his dark-ringed eyes.

"Me too," Olaf chipped in, before frowning. "Although, the sight of hot chocolate passing right through me might come off as both disconcerting and deeply disturbing."

"Definitely disturbing." Kristoff shambled through the snow. "You go on ahead—Sven and I will go find a place to park the sled."

Soon, the little group—sans a mountain man and his furry companion—was huddled around a wooden table in Oaken's little shop, under dangling lanterns and cheerful baubles on display.

"Where's your always-present-but-never-formally-introduced family, Mr Oaken?" Olaf piped up, perched on a stool near the counter.

"_Ooh, _family is on a trip to Teeterburg, mister snowman!" The shopkeeper interlaced his fingers. "Aunt's second cousin got married and invited the whole family. I said sorry but not able to come, shop can't run itself. Business never waits, _ja_?"

"Well, I would say that short term financial gain can never really replace the value of opportunities that, once lost, are never recovered." Olaf never lost his wide smile. "But maybe it's one of those things I'll understand when I'm older."

"We have wool shirts and new scarves too, _ja_?" Oaken held up a pair of garments from behind the counter, displaying them to the group. "And also our brand new mountain boots. Do feel free to browse!" He tapped his fingertips together enthusiastically.

"Thanks Oaken," Anna replied wearily, as she put the warm mug to her lips. "Mmmm…" she purred, eyes half-closed.

"I guess it's something that runs in the family, huh?" Lieutenant Mattias had a glint in his eye. "Agnarr couldn't get enough of chocolate either. We'd be finding him in the kitchens looking for a late snack at three in the morning."

Anna smiled, then jerked up as a hiccup seized her throat. "I guess it—_hic!_—does. _Hic!_ I think I swallowed too fast!" She thumped on her chest.

Mattias chuckled. A crease tugged at the edges of his lips, before his expression began to fall. "He was a good kid. And I always knew he'd be a good king. It's just—"

Anna's voice dropped. "You wished you could have seen it."

The old lieutenant nodded. "I think about all the years we lost. Agnarr must have thought I had died. And I never got to see him grow up—never got to see him take the crown, never got to be at his coronation." His voice dipped some more. "And I never—got to say goodbye."

Slender, pale fingers rested on top of his own dark, calloused hand. "I miss him too, lieutenant."

They sat in companionable silence for some time, sharing the moment. Mattias lost in heavy thoughts about the past and its sins, Anna trying her best not to let—_hic!_—her hiccups get in the—_hic!_—way of such a heartfelt—_hic! How do you even stop hiccups? Holding your breath? Working out a tough math problem? Quick, what's eight hundred and forty seven multiplied by fifty?_

"Wait, where's Kristoff?" Mattias looked up, all of a sudden.

"He said he was—_hic!_—finding a place to put the sled. But it's been like twenty minutes—oh no, oh no! _Where is he?_" Anna bolted up suddenly. "He could be in trouble! I should be out there! _Why didn't I go look for him sooner?_ It's dark and—" the door swung open, and Anna was out in the cold.

"_Anna!_" Mattias called out, one hand grabbing his pack.

The queen dashed out into the cold, gathering her cloak around her, slowed only somewhat by the heavy blanket of snow that lay across the land.

"Kristoff! Kristoff!"

Her voice bounced off the trees, echoing out in the dark sky underneath the stars.

Her heart pounded, as she pressed on, deeper into the woods. Behind, she could hear footfalls—Mattias' anxious voice called out again and again.

And then she heard the reply.

"Anna! Anna, over here!"

The rush of relief was like an explosion in her chest. A sob broke from her lips, and all of a sudden her legs weren't cold or heavy anymore. She ran forwards, through the snow, into the darkness, towards his voice. The shadows of the trees melded together, the snow blurred into white through her tear-stained eyes—

And then she was in his arms. Warm, comforting—safe.

"Anna, Anna I'm here." His hand patted her shoulder. "I'm alright."

"I thought I lost you!" Anna's sob was muffled against his shirt.

"I'm okay, I'm okay. We were looking for an open space to park the sled, and the runner got stuck and came off the bottom. I've been trying to repair it." Kristoff gestured at the sled parked in the snow, with an open toolbox next to it, and Sven dutifully holding a torch in his mouth. The mountaineer sighed. "I think we're going to need a couple of new screws and an Allen key. Maybe Oaken has them in his shop."

Anna sniffled and rubbed her nose, her heartbeat finally slowing down. "Well, I'm glad you're okay—just, let's come in and have chocolate, okay? I'm sure it can wait till morning."

Mattias' footsteps approached, along with another halo of light—the lieutenant had found time to light his own torch.

"Wait a minute—"

He thrust the lit flame forward, in an arc around him. And when Anna turned to look at him—his face had paled and his eyes were wide.

"I know where this is."

Three other pairs of eyes followed his gaze. Past the sled, at the edge of the clearing, past the shadow of so many fallen trees—

No. Not trees.

"Those are pillars—" Anna whispered, taking the torch from Sven's mouth. "And that's part of a roof—lieutenant, these are buildings!"

What looked at first like trees, were the ruined effigies of wooden structures. Collapsed on their sides, caved inwards, and—

"Look here." Kristoff gestured at a nearby log. Blackened on one jagged end, eaten all the way through. "Fire marks."

Mattias's grip on the torch trembled. Every step was hesitant, and the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead were not only from the heat.

"Lieutenant," Anna spoke, turning her head. "Is this…"

"Yes, Anna." She watched as his Adam's apple rose and then fell, as he swallowed. "This was one of Runeard's slave camps."

Silence, descending like a blanket. Heavy and foreboding, broken only by the wind wailing through the trees, like a chorus of mourning. Like a dirge for the past, rising through the night sky.

"It's true." Anna exhaled, her torch quivering in her grip. "It's all true. This really happened—"

She turned to look at Mattias, and this time the lieutenant did not flinch.

"Yes, my queen. It happened." He closed his eyes, his eyebrows falling like the wings of an old bird. "This was just one of many—many all through the mountain and deep in the woods."

"But what happened here?" Anna shone her torch around. "Was it burned down by our own people, or by the slaves? Or later on, after it was abandoned?"

"Anna?" Kristoff's voice called out.

The queen turned. The mountaineer was standing rigid, his frame frozen.

And suddenly, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand erect.

"Anna," his voice dropped. "I don't think it's abandoned."

She followed his gaze, past the edge of the torch-light, across the silhouettes of the fallen logs, and felt her heart stop in her throat.

A human figure.

Shrouded in darkness. And then moving. Like the shade of a shadow, its blackness melding with the background. Until it drew closer—

And next to it, another.

And another.

All around, noises came. Leaves rustling, twigs cracking.

"Queen Anna—" Mattias reached for his belt, wondering if he'd be fast enough.

And then a voice.

"_Tavtai morilogtun, _travelers."

They turned, as one. Along the open path, back toward's Oaken's shop, there now stood a man. Heavy-set, stocky, and with a full beard that reached to his broad chest covered with lamellar armor. His arms, thick as boulders, strained against the fabric. And strapped to his belt—

A long blade, straight and broader at the tip, double-edged and fierce. The _khanda_, the symbolic representation of the Gupta heritage of the Kushan steppe nomads—and the _very _real representation of the ability to kill.

The man stepped forward, barring their path.

"I am Huvishka, commander of the Black Talon. And you will answer my questions—or feed the snow with your blood."


	11. Chapter 11: The Wound

**Chapter 11: The Wound**

* * *

_The sky is awake._

The sky danced and flashed like a gleaming tapestry, glittering stars embedded in the dark nothing like jewels in ebony.

Magic streaked across the sky like the strokes of a giant cosmic paintbrush. The _aurora borealis _shimmered and waved like a river, its brilliant colours reflected in the mirror-like surface of the Dark Sea.

Elsa inhaled, and the magic inside her quivered with anticipation.

Like a river, the bright colours of the _aurora _descended towards the horizon, flowing between the ancient jagged peaks of the mountains that stood like sentinels in the icy plain. The glacier poured forwards, an immortal river of ice frozen in time, an island of magic amidst the dark and perilous sea.

_Ahtohallan._

Her thoughts had grown heavy throughout the day, as she wrestled with the knowledge of her kingdom's dark past. Renewed grief had mingled with doubt and uncertainty, as she had wrestled with truths about her own parents and the reign of her father. Worry had mingled with regret, at the burden suddenly thrust upon her younger sister who had borne the crown for less than three months.

But as she came closer, she could feel the gloom in her soul abate. For Ahtohallan was a prism, and through its light the disorderliness of her heart could finally unfurl like a frozen fractal.

Under her, the Nokk trembled. Elsa's own skin shivered, her heart filling with an unearthly warmth. The locus of magic called to all spirits—all its children—and the Fifth Spirit was no exception. Every fiber of her being, every iota of magic, resonating with the chords of Ahtohallan's siren song, calling with a longing to be consummated.

_I'm coming, _replied her heart's song._ I'm coming home._

And then—

Like a thunderclap, she felt the shock tear through her chest like a hammer.

It hit so suddenly, with such force, that it was only when she fell forward onto the back of the Nokk's neck that she realized the wound was not physical. She clutched on for dear life, even as her eyes blurred and the lights of the sky turned into a smear of colour—

_No._

No more colour.

The _aurora _had died. Impossibly, suddenly, the river of light had simply ceased to be, leaving the land encased in stolid darkness.

The _Nokk _bucked, whinnied as if in pain. Her hand reached down to comfort the spirit, to caress its mane—and her fingers swept through liquid water. And then under her thighs, where there was once the solidness and sureness of water made solid—

Emptiness.

Elsa's reflexes saved her.

As her body tumbled forward from the momentum, her hand stretched out. The magic within her flared, spreading through her palm. She rolled, pitching towards dark bottomless water reflecting the night—and her shoulder slammed into solid ice, blooming across the water, just in time.

Dimly, blinking away tears, she watched as the Nokk thrashed, the shape of the horse disintegrating into violent and disordered rhythms—and then, the dark water underneath consumed all.

Elsa breathed, rubbing her shoulder. Slowly, gingerly, she stood to her feet, the island of ice shifting slightly underneath.

She felt it inside. The constant screaming signal, like the physical pain of a wound, except this time it wasn't her body that hurt—

_No._

The spirits were in pain. The land—the _land _was hurting!

She felt it. Guiding her, imprinting itself within her consciousness, like a wound drawing attention to its location.

_Not here. Far away._

Her eyes turned, from the distant shadow of Ahtohallan, backwards towards the shore now out of sight.

The wound pulsed and throbbed, bleeding the land's pain.

_West of the river, along the old hunting trail, the open plains—_

Honeymaren had been heading for the plains.

Her mouth was suddenly dry, tongue scraping harshly against the backs of her teeth, as her heart threatened to bruise itself against her ribs.

Elsa turned on her heel.

The ice under her feet bloomed and pulsed. With only a thought, the magical hold on the soles of her feet vanished, as the waves of snow and ice billowed around her.

Her hands stretched forward, guided with purpose, blazing a path of ice across the dark sea, even as the magic pushed from behind, propelling her body forward. The wind eddied around her body, her hair trailing in the air, her cape catching the wind like a sail—

Elsa sped across the darkness like a comet through the night.

* * *

_**Steppe Theme: Nogay Turkleri - Özündü Ayamaysın**_

* * *

He was drowning, and gasping, and his body curled inwards until he was bent like a dried shrimp, his throat briny from the salt of his tears, swallowing phlegm dribbling freely from his nose onto the front of his little tunic. And all the while his ears filled with the distant sounds of drums and the low mournful tones of the funeral chants that beat on his eardrums like the shrieks of demons, and his hands clutched against his mother's warmth, and he was gone, gone, _gone—_

He sobbed and sobbed, his body quivering and wracked with so much pain that it came out in gasps like that of a dying horse, his hand over his chest as if covering a gaping physical wound, because he was _gone, gone, _that space on the shift at the centre of the _ger _would never be filled again, would be empty and cold_—_

Dimly, he could feel a finger, stroking his ear. He wanted to swat it away, wanted to scream at his mother to _leave him alone_, wanted nothing more than to curl up in his agony and regret and all the thousand unspoken words.

"Chagan," her voice came, like a sigh. "I miss him too. I miss him so much."

He didn't want consolation, didn't want to speak, didn't want anything more than to crawl into a hole and remain there. Perhaps the gods would take notice and accept his penance—perhaps any moment now, he would appear at the door of the tent, with his grin through his scrappy beard and a fresh rabbit draped across his shoulder.

"Your father died fighting. All the spears of the Northuldra were through his chest and belly. He died facing his enemy." Her voice broke at the last syllable, cracking like thin ice across a lake. "Your father—he died with honour."

In the woven crib at the far end of the tent, he heard a soft gibber, and a high-pitched cooing. Berke had woken up, and soon would be hungry for milk.

His mother's fingers sifted through his unruly hair, fingertips rubbing his scalp. "We must carry on, Chagan. For him, for Berke, for—"

He heard his mother's breath catch in her throat. Curled up as he was against her, his hand came to rest against her gravid belly through her cloak. Swollen like a deerskin, stretched tight, and moving with the life within. A promise already named—_Batu_. A promise cradled every morning as his mother faced the sun, hands over her belly, whispering the prayers and incantations to ward off the Northern spirits and safeguard the child's passage into the world of the living.

Now they were alone.

Like a tent stripped of its roof, like a canoe broken from its mooring, they were lost. Heshana's comforting shadow would never again cast across the floor of their _ger_, his uncouth barking laughter never again ring out by the fireside as he spat fish bones out onto his plate.

He was gone, his body even now cooling under the earth—_no! _Chagan forced himself to face the thought, as if pushing his body against the point of a blade—he was dead, another body among the hundreds of bones and lifeless fetuses under the cold soil.

"_Why?_" Chagan sniffled. "Why was he even at the river? Why didn't he try to run when—_why? _It was supposed to be his birth-day, we made dinner, we—"

"He would never have abandoned his brothers-in-arms." His mother spoke slowly, to herself as much as to him. "They were surprised, outnumbered—Heshana bought time for our warriors to escape the Northuldra. He died a steppe warrior, a _hero_—it was a good death." Her hand rested over his forehead. "A good death, that's all we can hope for, in the end."

"Father—" Chagan pressed his face against his mother's tunic, eyes stinging treacherously.

His fingers, clutched against his face, brushed against the raised keloid edges of the scars on his cheeks.

Many winters ago, when but a young boy of four, he had a knife drawn across each of his cheeks. As decreed by the steppe traditions, his father had sliced across his right cheek, holding him down with a firm grip as Chagan thrashed and screamed, making three shallow but forceful cuts below the eye. The cuts across his left cheek were gentler and shorter, for his mother could not bear to scar her own son as deeply as did her husband.

Chagan had wailed and cried, and as the tears ran down his cheeks, the pain from the wounds bloomed across his face like brands of hot iron. He had laid in agony, clutching at the open slits oozing congealing blood, until finally he forced—_forced!_—himself to stop. Gritting his teeth, clenching his eyes shut to dam up the salt of his tears. Walling himself in.

The way of the steppes. _Conceal and do not feel._

Shed blood, but never tears.

Now, healed but ugly against his face, they were a totem. A reminder.

A promise.

Chagan sobbed, sniffled, but dried his eyes clumsily with the hem of his tunic.

"Mother," he whispered. "What will we do now?"

He felt his mother's hand rub across his back. "Five of our brethren now owe their lives to Heshana. They have promised to provide for us. Meat, vegetables, firewood, and leather. To care for us—until you come of age, Chagan."

He uncurled his arms—they hurt at the joint, frozen as they were for so long—and unstuck himself from his mother reluctantly like a limpet from a rock.

"Elder Qorchi—" he murmured "—does he know? What will he do?"

His mother's thigh shifted, under the weight of his body. "Qorchi is aware of Heshana's sacrifice. He will soon lead the warriors of the Blue Talon and strike back at the Northuldra foraging party."

Chagan's little fist clenched over his tunic, bunching it up under trembling knuckles.

"When—" he hissed through gritted teeth "—when he comes back, I'm going to go—I'll go to him. I will join the Blue Talon. I will train, I'll learn to use the bow, to ride a horse, I'll—" he pulled at his tunic, feeling the seams beginning to stretch "—_I'll take revenge_, I swear to you, mother. I will."

Her hand nested at the small of his back.

"You will, Chagan—you will one day. When you are bigger, and stronger, and wiser—you will become the warrior your father always knew you would be." She paused. "But you are a boy now. And many winters are still ahead of you."

Soothing, comforting, her hand smoothed across his back.

"One day, the sapling will become an oak. Till then—rest, Chagan. Rest."

He felt his eyes begin to blur. His mother's presence, above him, beside him, was warm like a fire. Outside, the chants had begun to fade.

The sound of her breath was quiet, like mist evaporating from the earth. And then, from her lips, came the first notes of a lullaby.

**_Where the mountain meets the sky_**

**_There a homeland waits for you and I_**

**_Rivers flowing clear and blue_**

**_Tengri's promise dear and true…_**

Like the gentle waves on the river bank, her hand rubbed across his back, bearing him deeper and deeper into the realm of sleep. His eyelids grew heavy.

Still she sang, the haunting words sung from slave cages and stocks so many years ago, as the steppe peoples dreamt of a place they could be free at last. Someplace where children wouldn't lose their fathers. Where people wouldn't die of starvation or disease.

**_When the fires fade away_**

**_When the darkness yields its way to day_**

**_Leave our shackles in the past_**

**_Our battle ends at last_**

A finger stroked his ear, and Chagan could feel himself losing the battle. For his body was small, and his mind young, and the call of sleep was unbreakable.

Atuya's voice was cracking. And against his back, Chagan felt the drops of moisture. Strong she had to be, before her tribe and her children. But now, now that she was alone, Chagan knew that his mother could finally hold no more.

Her love was gone. Gone, where she could not follow, and all that remained was the hope that under Tengri's grove they would one day meet again.

**_Yet we have miles and miles to ride_**

**_Endless foes stand in our way_**

**_Dare you stand firm against the night_**

**_Till you see the light of day?_**

He would be strong, one day. Bigger, taller, and better at fighting. He would ride, and strike at the Northuldra like a hammer, and kill a thousand Northerners. And his people would be free, and his family would be safe.

But till then, he was a boy. He could wait. And sleep.

Sleep, for there was still tomorrow.

**_Where the mountain meets the sky_**

**_There a homeland waits for you and I_**

**_Make your hearth where eagles soar_**

**_Brave nomad, roam no more._**

Chagan breathed, and darkness surrounded him. Comforting dark, and the feel of his mother.

His limbs jerked.

And suddenly he was falling.

Arms flailing, legs kicking against nothing—

_Wake up._

The floor had disappeared. Only the endless dark, and the abyss underneath—

He could see, somehow, through the haze, the opening of his tent. Instead of the sky outside, there was a blazing tapestry of blue. Shining, shimmering—and his mother stood there, staring at him.

Except something was wrong. No—no, this was not—

His heart hammered in his chest, and suddenly the pain in his side exploded across his chest.

_Enemy._

Her hair turned white, like snow falling across her shoulder. She was slimmer, taller, younger—

Pale skin, rosy lips, and bright eyes of blue. And the tunic was gone, and now only the layers of snow somehow—impossibly—woven into sheets of cloth, wrapped against her body, trailing a shift of clear translucent ice.

It was here.

_Enemy._

The shaman. The foe.

Cold, cold all around. Ice creeping across his skin, across his face, across his _eyes_—

Chagan twisted, reaching for his long-knife—

No.

He could not find it, could not turn. Could not do anything, but fall, fall, _fall—_

_Wake up._

He roared, but the wind stole his voice, and the enemy came only closer—

_Wake up!_

* * *

The light of the open sky swallowed up the mists of memory and fever dreams in the span of a single breath.

The pain spread across his chest like lightning, arcing along a singular line from his back towards his sternum, and cut like a knife through his thoughts.

Iron discipline reasserted itself in the span of a moment—in the time of Chinggis Khaan, the _keshig _riders could rouse from the deepest slumber to full battle readiness in the time it took to draw a single breath. Chagan was not quite as quick as they were—but he was close. The youth rose from the blanket in an instant, the cold air filling his lungs as the warm blood pumped through his muscles.

And found himself staring at the figure that had just entered his tent.

A slender face, almond-shaped eyes, and hair tucked beneath a cap of reindeer leather.

Recognition came instantly. The face he saw as he writhed in pain on the ground in dishonor, the cracked rib stealing his breath; the face he saw before a boot slammed into him and brought with it darkness and unknowingness.

"_You._"

* * *

As the figure rose from his shift, the blanket falling from his bare shoulders like a cloak, Honeymaren's throat began to tighten. The wad of saliva seemed to be stuck somewhere at the back of her tongue, stubbornly refusing to go down.

That savage old man—their leader—had painted a picture of the man she was supposed to care for. Beaten unconscious, confined to a bed—she had envisioned a weak and wounded creature, like a lamed doe. She had even been afraid, that she wouldn't be able to nurse him back to health. And that she would die because of it.

Now—

_Stupid, stupid Honeymaren._

The hairs at the back of her neck stood on end, as the figure rose to his full height. Broad shoulders flexed, the tail of the blanket falling away to reveal a chest pockmarked with scars that laced the flesh like shallow ravines in a desert. A single scar, deep and erosive, ran like a riverbed from one nipple to cross the contours of his taut abdomen, ending at last at the peak of his hip, above the line of his leather trousers.

_This is no injured deer. This is a wolf._

As the man stepped forward, a hand pressed against his side, over the grey bandage bound around his chest. Where the fabric met the side of his ribcage, a brown stain peeked from between his fingers. Hardened, callused fingers, silently speaking of experience and ease with the implements of war.

There was a firmness and athleticism to her own people, of course, for life in the wilds and among the reindeer was demanding in its way. Even despite his love for cinnamon treats and penchant for sleeping in on days off, Ryder still maintained the lithe physique of a reindeer herdsman. In fact, the one thing that surprised Honeymaren upon visiting Arendelle was the—_rotund —_bodies of some of the Northerners. Between chopping up firewood, moving camp, hauling water, and keeping pace with their numerous reindeer, precious little fat managed to make its way to Honeymaren's own toned abdomen.

But this was different. _He _was different. She had never yet seen someone so utterly—_hard._

Limping in pain, hobbled by fever—every movement of the warrior was still purposeful and decisive. Muscles rippled and stretched like fibers of steel underneath coarse, hardened skin, and against a frame stripped of fat, every detail stood in stark relief. Like a living tapestry, speaking of more than just hardship and difficulty—a testament to a life of war and brutality. Like steel relentlessly purified in the crucible and battered endlessly—a living weapon, bred and honed for the singular purpose of the destruction of its foe.

And as he stepped towards her, Honeymaren knew who that foe was.

Blue eyes narrowed underneath his brow, a high nose drawing upwards in distaste as his lips peeled back to reveal a set of teeth clenched together like the snarl of a wolf. Under his eyes, three parallel scars marred his cheeks. The sides of his head were shaved to a short crop, leaving only the long tresses at the top of his scalp to be gathered into a tribal topknot.

His lips parted.

"It is you."

His words were quick, but accented. His emphasis dropped on the wrong syllables. But all she could register was the shock he could speak her language at all.

"You—you can—"

"My mother taught me." He walked closer. "The language of my enemy. In war, such knowledge is useful."

He released the hand clutching his side, the bandage dropping ever so slightly. The angry bruise across his chest stood out like a wine stain.

"You wounded me." With firm steps, he had circled around her. And now stood between her and the entrance of the tent.

Her way out was blocked.

Honeymaren gathered her breath. "And you killed—"

She bit her tongue, closing her eyes, trying to tune out the drumming in her chest.

_You need to stay alive._

_Elsa needs you to stay alive._

"I—I have been asked by your leader. To care for your injury." She tried to remember the name of the leader. Tried, and failed.

"I do not need a nursemaid." His voice was a low growl.

"Your rib is broken. It will need—"

"You broke my horse's ribs. Punctured its lung." He was closer now. "The beast fell near our camp. It had to be put down."

The shock caused her blood to freeze and her joints to turn to water. Like a rabbit caught in a trap, she jerked—and uselessly, his grip closed against her wrist—_her bad arm. _His fingers were a vise, and she might as well have been struggling against an iron shackle.

"You can still use your hand." She felt her arm turn in his grip. "I'm surprised—I think the knife went through and through."

"It did," Honeymaren snapped. "And it _hurt_! I felt like I was going to die when your—your—_butcher_—cut it out of me!"

She caught the hiss of air escaping his nostrils. "How you people managed to survive the forest, I don't know. You can barely fight, you can't endure pain, and I've seen swarms of flies with more organization. And to think we once fled from your kind."

"_Who are you_?" Honeymaren finally wrested free of his grip—or rather, he chose that moment to release it. "Who are all of you? You've killed hundreds of us! Innocent men and women! _What did we ever do to you?_"

Then she spun around, and her nose almost brushed against his chin.

"_Are you mocking me?_" He hissed down at her. "After all that we have lost, all that we have endured _at your hands, _you dare to ask—"

His voice dropped, till it sounded like iron scraping on stone. "Do not give me cause to kill you. Elder Qorchi will be displeased. But rest assured, his displeasure would be the only consequence."

Claw-like, fingers curled, his right hand lingered by her shoulder, perilously close to her neck.

_Steady._ The Northuldra woman exhaled.

She met his glare, forcing her eyelids to stay open as long as they could. "I don't know what you're talking about. And whatever we did to you, none of it—_none of it—_could be as horrible as how you slaughtered Olle's tribe!"

For a moment, she fully expected him to strike her with the full force of his arm. Had braced for it, in fact—clenched her teeth and tucked her tongue safely against the roof of her mouth, eyes closed and jaw stuck forward.

Instead, she felt his breath recede.

"You—you are serious." The steel was still there, but his tone was almost inquisitive. "You really don't know who we are?"

"And _none of you_ seem to want to tell me!" Honeymaren spat.

"The fields at Eighth Mile? The Night of Falling Stones?" He probed. "The camps, the long marches? The river running red?"

"I don't—those are just a string of words! I don't know what they mean!" The shepherdess threw her hands up. "Look—"

"You don't know about us. At all." His voice dropped. "I always thought—they always told us that each and every one of you wanted us dead."

"We don't even—!" Honeymaren raised her voice. And then, cut herself off.

She swallowed, even as the warrior's deep blue eyes roamed across her face, and down her neck.

"You can't be—" she whispered. "_The dark army?_"

He raised an eyebrow.

"When I was little, Ye—_my elder_ told me about the dark army in the forest, in the Mist. Terrible soldiers made of smoke and darkness, who ate human flesh and rode on mounts made of human bones and dead wood. That they were brought in by King Runeard who summoned them with a dark spell, and led by a terrible leader named Vold."

Her lips were dry, uncomfortable. "My mother used to tell me that we had to move our camp every two nights, or Vold and his riders would come for us. And if I went outside and strayed too far—Vold would take me away, and my meat would be eaten, and my bones used to knit together new horses, and all that would be left would be my head."

_Ravens flee in panicked flight_

_Rider dark as blackest night_

_Come astride the sallow steed_

_Upon your flesh and bone to feed_

She shivered involuntarily. Childish stories, old legends—but the Northuldra had moved camp every two nights anyway, without fail. And when the oldest ones spoke of the smell of Vold in the wind, none of the adults had laughed. Without argument, they would move their camp within the hour.

Now she knew why.

The warrior's neck was bent, his face uncomfortably close.

"Vold." He rolled the name across his tongue. "_Vold, Vold-un—_Uldin." He paused. "Uldin, the son of Mundzuk, of the clan Ashina. He was the first to lead our free riders into the forest, and the first great warrior to strike against both the Northerners and the Northuldra, until he died in battle three years afterwards."

He smoothed a hand over his left shoulder. Tattooed in brilliant azure over the contour of his shoulder was an insignia, a diagonal line crossed by three smaller slashes. "The Blue Talon carries the emblem of Uldin's clan, in his memory."

The shepherdess stood firm, even as she could feel her nerves fray and her bladder threaten to burst. "So it's—it's true. You're—_you are real._ You're not a story—you're not ghosts—_you're people_." Her eyes darted, back and forth, as if struggling to keep pace with her thoughts.

The man snorted, stepping backwards. A hand reached down to pull the blanket from the floor.

"We lost so many of our tribes in the Mist. White Oak, Amber Pine—they always told me the Mist swallowed them up." Honeymaren's mind raced. "But they weren't lost, were they? You—_you got to them._"

He had begun to fold the blanket. A ragged, filthy thing, fraying on every surface. His eyes never left hers.

"_But why?_" she demanded. "Where did you come from? How did you get here? You can't have come from over the True North—it's nothing but snow and ice and nothing grows. Your horses—they're northern horses, just like the ones in Arendelle—how did you—"

"_Northuldra_," he growled, "you talk too much."

Finally folded into a bundle, the blanket slipped easily into the crook under his arm. "I believe Elder Qorchi told you to be of use."

He crossed the tent in no more than three long strides, stuffing the ragged sheet into a sack. "We move camp before midday. I suggest you help me pack. That is, if you wish to keep your life."

Honeymaren looked around. Truth be told, there wasn't much to 'pack up' at the corner of the threadbare tent. A small stack of packages wrapped in dried bark—rations, judging from the faint smell of fermented milk—and a jug. Beside it, a bow and a quiver of arrows. And a long-knife, in its sheath.

"I'm glad." The warrior's bare back was muscled and defined, and as scarred and hardened as the rest of him. "After all we've been through—I'm glad we haunt your nightmares."

His back turned to her, the warrior began to pull a fresh tunic over his chest. The sound was soft—but Honeymaren could catch the harsh hisses of suppressed pain as his stretching muscles grated against the jagged edge of his rib.

_Stay alive, Honeymaren._

_Stay alive till you can go back._

_Stay alive…_

…_till you can escape._

She knelt by an empty sack as she began to lay the ration packs down, arranging them as neatly as she could.

"What do I call you?" she asked.

The warrior's footfalls stopped abruptly. "_What_?"

"I'm—" she swallowed the wad of saliva at last. "I'm Honeymaren, of the clan Nattura. And you—" The bow wouldn't fit in the sack, and she wasn't sure if the quiver would be a good idea. Better to hang on to them. But the long-knife—

"I'm Chagan." Brusque, steely. He remained with his back turned. "Of the clan Turushka. And Honeymaren?"

She paused, the long-knife still in her grip. "Yes?"

"If you ever draw that knife on me," he said calmly, adjusting his sleeves, "you will be dead before the blade can leave its sheath."

And without waiting for her reply, Chagan disappeared past the entrance of the tent.

* * *

**Spirits' Theme: _Folkvangr - Peter Gundry_**

* * *

The air was thick with a diseased atmosphere. In the dark, the snow seemed to hide strange and sinister shapes underneath its pale veneer. Even the trees looked menacing, long fingers casting shadows over the landscape.

She had felt dark before, but not like this.

Elsa's hand had gone unconsciously to her throat. The closer she had gotten, the stronger the feeling had become. Deep bottomless dread pulling at her heart like an anchor, cold clammy sweat clinging to her skin.

_Honeymaren._

No insects chirped, no critters hummed their nocturnal rhythm. Empty, cold fields stretching past the trees, towards the mountains.

It was building within. Like a breath held for too long, struggling against the barrier of her lungs; like a gathering turbulent floor behind a flimsy levee. Dread and darkness seeking release—

Elsa knew.

The truth. The land itself was crying, singing a dirge, and the Fifth Spirit had become its conduit.

_It's here._

_This is the wound._

Elsa closed her eyes, spread her arms, and released the floodgates.

Ice exploded outwards, expanding in concentric circles, every fleck of snow imbued with the powerful and ancient magic that defied understanding. Then, the snowflakes froze, suspended in the air—

And then the battle erupted.

Elsa shrank back, as a horseman charged past her, an icy figure on horseback, long lance in hand—

She dodged, as a figure clad in furred clothes fell forward, mouth frozen in a soundless shriek—

She raised her arms, as icy arrows materialized in the air and plunged downwards, disappearing into nothingness mere inches from her face—

And then, she saw.

On her knees, broken, despondent. The familiar figure of a shepherdess, bruised and dirt-covered, her icy and translucent eyes wide with abject fear.

"No," whispered Elsa.

The snowy mist parted, and the shadows coalesced into the silent figures of horsemen slowly approaching the helpless Northuldra.

Elsa stepped forward, hand outstretched, heart quickening. It was useless, useless—because this was a memory, and it had already happened, and nothing she could do—

All at once, it disappeared. The horses, the people, Honeymaren—vanishing into the air, leaving Elsa alone once more.

_No, no, no—_

Her knee buckled, and Elsa tumbled forward onto the ground.

Her face brushed the snow, the cold merging gently with her own inner coolness. Her fingers brushed through the blades of grass submerged beneath the soft layer of melting snow. Numb, weak, disconnected—she was like a disembodied pair of eyes, staring at her own form collapsed upon the ground.

Then she felt wetness against her cheek, and the sensation of familiar magic in contact with her own.

Elsa's eyes fluttered open.

The Nokk was back. Standing by her side, nuzzling her with the softest of whinnies.

The Dark Sea had turned turbulent and shadowy, dark currents swallowing up the reflected starlight. And the Nokk had changed with it. Elsa had never seen it this way before—like the night sky captured in water. Where gentle ripples once caressed its form, now currents of forceful energy eddied and undulated along its mane and down the glossy fullness of its buttocks and tail.

The Nokk stamped the earth, and its eyes glowed like living coals.

The wind picked up, whistling across the trees. Leaves peeled from branches, and then the branches themselves bent and contorted under the relentless force. Howling, galloping through the night, stampeding through the sky, she felt Gale let loose the fury of the air.

Through her bare feet, she felt the distant reverberations of thunder through the earth. And knew, even without looking, that the Earth Giants were awake. On the march, moving inexorably through the forest, a living army of unstoppable rock.

And finally, coming from the edge of the forest, a single tongue of fire. Not creeping with fits and starts from rock to rock, mischievous and hesitant—no, no more. Like a wildfire, like the path of a meteor, bringing with it the primeval power of heat, the first energy to illuminate the universe.

The flame burst upwards, in a plume of light, growing and roaring.

She knew.

Knew it, even as she recognized the emotion within herself. Shock and sadness and anxiety and grief and all the impotence of her own conflicted spirit had melted away like dross in the crucible, and it was the purity of that new emotion which had summoned the spirits to her side like a singularity of magical purpose.

_Fury._

The Fifth Spirit stood to her feet, her hands aglow with magic, beaming and sparking along her arms like the flashes of thunder from a heavy storm cloud.

"I'm coming, Honeymaren."

And may Ahtohallan help whoever stood in her way.


	12. Chapter 12: The Face in the Woods

**Chapter 12: The Face in the Woods**

* * *

"One hundred and eighty sacks of grain, forty barrels of vegetables, forty sacks of bread—"

The coal stub scratched noisily on the coarse sheet of pine-paper. "Let's see. Twelve carts, two dozen horses and eighteen men—that should be enough." The foreman sniffed as he scratched his nose, staining his ruddy skin with a smear of black. "They could link up with Tabin's Red Talon scouts about halfway."

"How's it going with the loot?" Chagan called out, whistling across the bustling camp square. Around him, men and women dressed in woolen tunics busied themselves with the work of dismantling the camp.

The foreman grunted, not looking up from his sheet. "The cloth bolts, dried fish, dried meat, herbs, wine—no problem. It's getting the perishables to the horde on time that's tricky. Those that aren't going to our own upkeep, that is."

A coal-smeared hand stabbed at his wrinkled sheet. "Our camp followers are already stretched thin as they are, fetching fresh horses and equipment. And I can't have Blue Talon riders doing delivery work while there's still a battle to be fought."

Sighing, he struck off a line violently on his list. "I tell you, raiding and fighting is easy. Easy as eating or drinking. It's managing logistics and supply lines that's the bitch."

Chagan nodded sagely. "I'll keep that in mind next time I'm bleeding out on the battlefield, holding my guts in."

"How's your rib, by the way?" The coal stub jabbed towards the youth's bandaged torso, visible under his half-open tunic.

Chagan shrugged, then winced as the motion irritated the rib in question. "Getting better."

The foreman cocked his head, peering behind the tall steppe tribesman. "That the bitch that did it?"

Chagan turned slightly, as Honeymaren squared her shoulders and stiffened her gaze at the sudden attention. He had been watching her keenly, over the intervening hours, but had seen no indication that the Northuldra could speak any of the steppe tongues; nevertheless, he had switched from Mongolic to the lesser-spoken Chuvash just in case. The mishmash of the myriad of steppe tongues ranged from Magyar to Hindi; Chagan suspected that in another generation, the languages would merge into a common creole.

"That's her. And she's my problem now." Chagan turned back to the foreman, who blinked and pursed his lips. "Qorchi put her under my care. Here's hoping I can hold a bow steady enough to put an arrow in her back if she tries to run."

"Pretty looking thing, too. Not half bad. The way our women describe the forest women, you'd think they were half-bear hunchbacked demons." The older tribesman grinned as he jotted yet another figure down on his sheet. "Maybe you could settle down with her, eh? Seems like she'd be fun under the wool blankets, ha!"

Chagan snorted, as he reached for his satchel. "Horse archer, foreman, engineer, and now love expert. Is there anything you can't do?"

"I can't make supplies appear from thin air, is what I can't do!" Frowning, the foreman glowered at the multitude of scribblings on his ledger. "I can see the requisition list stuffed in your bag—so out with it!"

"Here you go." Chagan handed over the folded sheet, which was snatched immediately by the scowling foreman.

"A new horse, a new bow, forty more arrows, two sets of bandages, a bottle of ointment—oh why stop there, _Ye Tai_? Why not ask me for a golden crown and a glittering ship while you're at it, huh?" The foreman peered down the list, his expression darkening.

"Hey, I'm the one out there doing the bleeding and fighting. And if you want to know about the dead horse and the broken bow—" he jabbed a finger over his shoulder "—her fault. Again."

The foreman stared daggers at Honeymaren, who glared back. "Fine. Fine, _Ye Tai_, if only because you're an otherwise outstanding member of the horde whose mother also happens to make the _best _wool shirts a man can hope to wear." He scribbled on the list. "I can get you the horse, and the bow. But you'll have to make do with twenty arrows and _one _set of bandages for now. We're tight and you know it!"

"Much appreciated, and many thanks." Chagan folded a hand over his breast.

"Yes, yes, now get on with it and leave me to my work. We've got until midday to pack up!" Folding his ledger beneath his arm, the foreman strode off, barking orders to the porters.

As Chagan slung his pack across his shoulder and resumed his walk across the camp, Honeymaren fell in step beside him, the sack of supplies draped across her own shoulder.

"I had no idea you could read and write," the Northuldra woman said.

"Did you think we were savage and unthinking beasts?" Chagan switched back to the Northern tongue, tripping slightly over the consonants. "We are literate, down to the lowest rider."

"No, I didn't think you were savage because I thought you couldn't read," Honeymaren spat. "It's the _violence and murder _that gave it away! _Literate—_what, does that mean that you could kill women and children, and then _write it down_?"

"What we have done," Chagan said as he walked past the makeshift stable, "was no worse than what _your kind _did to us all those years ago."

"Alright, _that's—it!_" Honeymaren clapped a hand over his shoulder. "I'm sick of you dodging the question. Tell me exactly what it is that the Northuldra did to you! What—_what could our people have done to make you hate us so much?_"

The steppe rider's strides stopped. And then Chagan turned, with barely concealed fury.

"Forty years ago, the Northern king Run-aard brought my people to this land as slaves, to build his great dam." He struggled to keep his voice level—with his rising anger, his enunciation of the Northern tongue was beginning to fray. "We were kept in camps, worked to death, killed—like _livestock_. And when we finally managed to break free, to flee into the forests—"

His fingers clenched into a fist.

"Hunted down. Slain like animals. By _you—_by your people, the Northuldra. And by your _spirits_, mercilessly tearing us apart. You considered us invaders, trespassers on your sacred land, and so you killed us like you would kill rats or worms infesting your farmland."

Honeymaren's eye twitched, as her cheeks paled. "That's not—that's not possible. We are the people of the sun. We live with the land. We love peace, we would never, ever—"

She inhaled. "It's the Arendellians who are—_were —_violent and cruel! If what you say is true—King Runeard is the one to blame for your hardship. The Northuldra are victims, just like you!"

"Is that what you have been told?" Chagan was uncomfortably close, now. "Is that what your elders have been telling you, in your comfortable tents, above the bones of steppe children buried beneath the soil?"

His eye twitched, and a hand went briefly to his side. "The same elders who worked their demon magic to turn the spirits on us, like hunting dogs on wounded deer? The same ones who hunted those of us—lost and desperate, women and children—who had come to you for refuge?"

Chagan stared at Honeymaren for a moment. The Northuldra woman blinked, her lips parting, but not speaking. Finally, the man turned his eyes away, to the north.

"We finally found a place many miles north, beyond the old stone markers. The spirits could not cross that boundary, for some reason, and it was at that place of safety that we made our home and gathered our strength."

The clops of shod hooves on hard soil drew Chagan's gaze to a horseman, bow in hand, patrolling the perimeter of the Blue Talon camp. "Now we are here, stronger, more numerous, and without weakness or mercy. The pup you have beaten and cast out has returned as a wolf. And now, it brings a pack."

"But why—" Honeymaren released a breath she only just realized she had been holding. "Why does it have to be war? We could make peace between our peoples, and with Arendelle. If only you could come and—"

"And what?" Chagan sniffed. "Sit down and have dinner together, share bread and wine, and talk of peace and love and goodwill?"

He ground the mud under his heel. "The blood of our fathers, and their fathers—our brothers and sisters, our mothers, our _own_—they soak the land. Their spirits are chained, and they cry out, 'Avenge us!' That is our purpose."

Chagan turned away, adjusting the strap of his pack. "Forget it. You wouldn't understand. You are too young to have experienced any of it."

"And _so are you_!" Honeymaren found her voice again. "You can't be—you should be, what, twenty four? Twenty five? All this happened before you were born! It sounds to me that you've only been repeating what your—your—elders and leaders have been telling you, over and over! Getting you to hate us!"

"And it _sounds to me_," Chagan growled, turning his head ever so slightly, "that the _prisoner _in my charge is becoming rebellious."

Honeymaren clamped her lips shut, staring ahead. And then, wordlessly, shouldered her pack and walked forward, doing her best to keep up with the long strides of the steppe tribesman.

* * *

_This has to be the longest campsite I've seen._

Honeymaren's shoulders were sore. The pack had been only mildly inconveniencing when it contained only rations and the tribesman's assorted odds and ends. But after they stopped by the camp dispensary, that load now included bottles of horse's milk, several sheets of leather for repairs, spare horseshoes, sandals, oil—and she was now sweating and panting. With every step, she felt her knees ache under the load.

She glowered resentfully at the back of the tribesman who led the way, the new bow slung over his shoulder along with a quiver of arrows.

_The last time Ryder tricked me into carrying his pack for him, I kicked him in the knee. _Honeymaren gritted her teeth, blinking away the sweat. But then again, Ryder had not been carrying a compound bow, a bad attitude, and about thirty more pounds of muscle.

"We stop here." The tall tribesman finally raised his hand.

They were at the edge of the camp, near the forest. Bordered by slick river rocks and pillows of moss, a brook ran alongside the forest path, in the shade of trees. The water bubbled over hollows in the rock, sparkling in the light of the northern sun, and Honeymaren's throat was suddenly clammy and uncomfortably sticky.

"We'll fill up the water skins for us and the horses. And have a rest." Chagan gestured to a nearby flattish boulder as he sat down, unslung his bow, and began to unlace his boots.

Honeymaren dropped the pack with a sigh, and practically dropped to her knees at the edge of the stream. The icy cool water felt like the breath of the gods themselves against her parched lips—she drank, gulping as much of it down as she could.

When she finally emerged, wet hair stuck to her neck, cheeks flushed pink and breathing deeply, she caught sight of the steppe tribesman staring at her, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I don't know how long we'll be riding for. If you want to clean up that filth—now's the time."

She felt his gaze against her neck and collarbone. Sweeping her wet fingers against the sticky skin, she felt the grime come off like a film, staining her fingertips a dark brown. It was then she remembered that her last bath had been two days ago—an eternity.

And still—

Honeymaren looked at the tribesman. He was looking straight ahead, at the tree-line, while uncorking a water skin.

Slowly, she reached behind her to unlace the back of her tunic. And slower still, her fingers hooked around the hem of a collar. Her eyes crept back to Chagan. He hadn't moved.

Quickly—as smoothly as she could manage—Honeymaren stripped off her tunic, and then kicked off her trousers. Sticky, wet, and pungent, they had felt like gangrenous flesh against her skin. The cool air hit her bare body almost immediately, and she hurriedly stepped into the stream.

The water came up to her waist. Honeymaren exhaled, feeling her muscles begin to loosen the water eddied and babbled around her.

"Hey, shepherdess."

Honeymaren yelped louder than she expected as her hands went to her bosom, desperately covering herself, before she had even noticed that Chagan was himself already in the stream, his hair wet and his own tunic and trousers folded in a pile by the rock.

Something was flying her way. She raised her hand and caught it—it was slick and slippery in her grip.

"Soap. Reindeer tallow and herbs. Use it." Chagan nodded at her, before turning his back.

Her eyes lingered on his back for just a moment longer, before Honeymaren began to clean herself. The yellowish lump sloughed and foamed easily in her hand, the runoff gathering into a darkening sludge as it soaked up the detritus on her dry, parched skin. Her wound throbbed, but it was faint now—the herbs were starting to work. She took care as she lifted her wounded arm in the air, away from the water—the bandages were starting to get damp. The air was cold and relentlessly icy, and she was exposed and vulnerable.

The tribesman had his back still turned to her, as he began to clean himself. She watched as he loosened his topknot, allowing his hair to tumble backwards over his neck and broad shoulders.

_He's not turning around. _

Honeymaren kept her eyes on him, even as her soapy hands roamed lower to more intimate areas. The warrior's body language was relaxed and unhurried, his wet fingers raking through the length of his hair as he pulled the tangles free.

_Maybe he's trying to be chivalrous. Protect my modesty, all that._

It was a comforting thought. And a wishful one.

Her eyes wandered over to the flat rock by the stream's edge, where the compound bow rested, balanced carefully against the straight side of the stone along with a full quiver of cruel-looking arrows.

_Or he knows that if I try to run…I won't get far._

That—sounded more likely.

The opposite bank was lined with smooth pebbles along a steep incline, ending in a ridge at the very edge of the woods. Stretching her foot, Honeymaren probed the surface of the stream bed with her toes—slick, slippery rock lined with submerged moss and lichen. In between the stones, gaps yawned—open hollows the width of a human ankle, murky silt concealing jagged stone shards like broken glass.

Her gaze wandered over to the trees. Tall, imposing, they loomed over the stream. Here and there were the signs of new forest, the regrowth of the woods over the scars of logging. Honeymaren wondered if these woods had once been worked over by the Arendellians, if the followers of Runeard had once dared to wander this far north and west.

Her thoughts were still half-heartedly turned over in her head, when her eyes wandered over a gap between the boughs of a nearby tree. Her heart had leapt to her throat, her mind suddenly crystal sharp, before the sight had even registered.

The Northuldra shepherdess gulped. Looked around, at the tribesman still scrubbing his upper arms, his back turned.

Slowly, Honeymaren turned her head again towards the trees.

The face blinked back.

Unmistakable. She could make out the rugged cheekbones, the wrinkles and sunken eyes. Those features were unfamiliar. But not the reindeer-leather cap on the woman's head, and the imprint of the snowflake upon its front.

_Northuldra._

One of her people was here. Creeping through the trees, peering at her.

Honeymaren inhaled, deeply. Her legs felt numb from the thigh down in the icy water. She glanced again, at the warrior—what was his name?—who still had his back to her. But here and again, his neck turned dangerously from one side to the other, and she could make out the whites at the edge of his dangerously keen eyes.

Keeping her posture as neutral as possible, she turned her head back to the forest.

The Northuldra—an older woman, with messy hair and a dirt-flecked face—was gesturing at her. Half-obscured in the shadow of the trees, her lips moved, mouthing something silently.

_Come on._

_Come on._

_Come to us._

Honeymaren looked backwards. Her thoughts—disorganised and thumping with the crescendo of rising panic—collected themselves, if only for a brief moment. Enough, for her to realise what she needed to do, and to provide the courage to do it.

She turned back to the face in the woods, and mouthed back.

_Wait._

_I will come._

Her feet moved slowly, treading gingerly over the rock, toes curling tightly to steady herself. The water streamed around the curves of her naked body as she dipped lower, submerging herself briefly, her fingers closing around the smoothness of a loose piece of rock.

She waded further upstream, towards the flat rock, where her clothes were piled alongside the tribesman's, along with his bow and other effects.

She could reach her hand. Just far enough.

All the while, she kept her eyes on him. For one dangerous moment, she saw his neck begin to swivel, and the thunder in her chest pounded in a maddening rhythm, before—

Her fingers relaxed. The moment passed. And it was done.

Honeymaren exhaled.

Now for the next bit. And this, she did not like. At all.

_Be brave, Maren._

_Be brave, and make it home._

"Hey," she called out, wading closer to the steppe warrior. "You can have your soap back."

He paused, as his right hand scraped over the opposite shoulder. "Keep it. You need it, and need it badly."

"You're saying I'm dirty?" Honeymaren waded closer, and closer again. The tribesman was close enough to smell. There was the faint scent of herbs, and of some flowery mix no doubt lathered with the tallow. Dimly, she was surprised at how easily the smell of horse washed off. In fact—he didn't smell all that bad.

The foamy runoff from his body flowed downstream from his thighs in a steady wake, eddying around Honeymaren's waist and pooling briefly in the cavity of her navel before continuing its path along the current. She suppressed an involuntary shiver, glancing down to see her chocolate-brown nipples stiffen under a thin sheen of moisture. Even amidst the rising tension, and the hammering of her heart, the thought of her bare body in contact with something from his own, felt—too intimate for comfort. Unnerving.

The warrior snorted. "Wash up and dry yourself. We will be off soon."

Honeymaren was close enough now that she was almost in his shadow. "Why won't you turn around?"

His head cocked, slightly to the left. "And why would you want me to?"

The Northuldra woman forced herself to chuckle, and the sound was unnaturally high. "I was just wondering if someone your age—well, you know. Whether you had seen a woman before."

Her hand rose, hovering over his toned back, before alighting like a butterfly on his shoulder. Her fingers touched on his warm, wet skin. Subtly, she felt the muscles underneath tense.

Her voice lowered to a rasp. "_You're shy, aren't you?"_

The warrior's head snapped to the side, as he glared back at Honeymaren, teeth bared.

"You," he snarled, "have to be the stupidest prisoner in the world. Do you have any idea what steppe warriors used to do to women they captured? Have you no sense in your head, to at least preserve your dignity and your life?"

His body turned, at the waist, as he rounded on Honeymaren's naked body. "What kind of idiot would try and seduce—"

He never finished his sentence. With the full force of both hands braced together, Honeymaren drove the sharpened edge of the smooth river rock like an axe head into his side. Eyes clenched shut, she felt the blow connect with hardness that gave way like the shell of a turtle. Ears strained tight with hyper-acuity, she caught the sound of the bandage ripping, as her trembling, bruised fingers continued to push into his wounded side—his broken rib.

The tribesman's howl of pain filled her ears.

The rock slipped from her grasp, sinking into the water with an anticlimactic plop.

And Honeymaren ran for her life.

* * *

Chagan's world was pain. Bursting across his chest again like a bullet from a mangonel, snapping the broken rib against his lung like the recoil of a bow.

His hands scrabbled against sharp rock, as he struggled to push his head above the water. And all the while, the splashes rang out. Rhythmic splashes, mixed with loud pants of exertion.

The prisoner.

She was escaping.

Fighting the pain, forcing it down, Chagan gripped his knees and forced himself upwards. Each breath was agony, the cold air like icy daggers ripping across the inside of his chest. The white hot anger began to burn, and with the rage came clarity of purpose.

Chagan began to move. Not towards the figure now scrambling up the opposite bank—he wouldn't reach her in time. She had too wide of a head start, and had the advantage of not having a broken rib slowing her down.

Instead, he waded quickly to his side of the river, towards the flat rock. The arrows lay close by, nested in their quiver. An impatient arm swept aside the pile of his clothes as his fingers closed around his compound bow.

Chagan stared in disbelief at the loose bowstring dangling uselessly from one end.

"You smart bitch."

* * *

She ran.

Stark naked, feet bruised, limbs trembling, she scrambled up the bank of the stream and into the shade of the forest. All the while, feeling the presence of the tribesman behind her, hearing his curses and painful heaves.

_Run, Maren. Run._

Untying the tribesman's bowstring had been a stroke of inspiration; she didn't doubt that she had bought herself many precious seconds. Even so, she knew that he would soon be after her—and his legs were longer, his stamina more considerable. The feeling of pursuit—of danger, of death—was like the crack of a whip on her back. Her toes chafed and bled, her soles were rubbed raw. But she didn't care.

"That's right…this way!" The voice sounded close by, but somehow distant all at the same time. The leaves overhead rustled. "You're almost there!"

Honeymaren gripped a nearby trunk, pulling herself deftly over a rocky outcropping. Her feet were sure, firm. The reflexes of a forager and shepherdess were returning, and now that hope was close by, the energy flooded into her limbs like a welcome stream of life-giving water.

"Where—which tribe are you—from?" Honeymaren panted. "How—how did you know—where to find me?"

Above, a blur of grey flashed between the cover of branches and budding flowers, sending a shower of leaves tumbling through the air. "I'll explain later! Just follow me!"

The voice dipped to the left, and Honeymaren followed. She was deep enough into the forest now that the babbling of the stream had faded into a distant murmur. But any minute now, she would hear the whistle of an arrow, or the growls of the approaching pursuer—and she had no other choice.

The forest floor was uneven and laden with overgrowth, sharp rocks and smooth slippery moss hidden in almost-dark. She kept to the large snake-like roots of the trees, where she could at least see where she was going.

"This way!"

She was close by, not far ahead. Were there more of them? A rescue mission, or just a group of wandering Northuldra at the right place and the right time? Did any survivors of the massacre of Olle's tribe make it out, to report on what had happened?

"Wait!" Honeymaren panted, her hair trailing loosely behind her. "Slow—slow down!"

She looked ahead, for the blur of grey. It was—it was gone. How? She had been following so closely—no! She _had _to be ahead. Honeymaren's eyes scanned wildly across the tops of the trees, the branches intersecting and crossing over each other, the dizzying canopy of light and shadow. All the while, her heart pounded in panic, because _he was going to catch up—_

Then she fell, crushed beneath the unbearable force, and her world was filled with a sight from her nightmares.

"Wha—"

Wide bloodshot eyes, dilated in pure madness. Yellowed teeth bared like fangs, stained brown, viscous saliva pooling behind a slug-like bottom lip that quivered with each breath. All the while, claw-like hands pinned her shoulders to the ground, while spindly yet unnaturally strong knees spread Honeymaren's naked thighs apart.

Hair—white, ragged, malnourished—draped and rained all over Honeymaren's face and shoulders, scraping her raw cheeks like a tanner's brush. The Northuldra woman shrieked, screamed as the hag-like face grinned back.

"You'll be delicious! Delicious!"

A claw mauled the young shepherdess' breast, filthy long nails raking across the soft mound, leaving dark stains like ink marks on the pale flesh. Underneath the wasted muscles of her palm, the heartbeat of the Northuldra woman reverberated.

"I can't wait to taste you!" The emaciated hag gibbered, drool pouring freely from her mouth. "It's been so long—so long! Young flesh! _Young flesh!_"

The scream on Honeymaren's lips had faded away into a high pitched whine, her throat torn up by the sheer effort, her lungs screaming for air.

That thing—that _monster_—couldn't, shouldn't be human, there was no way it could be, because the glassy look in its eyeballs and the animal hunger behind the sheen of its iris belonged in the skull of a rabid wolf or bear, never, _never_ in the face of a human, a woman—

And then, she felt her hand spring free, from under the woman's weight.

Honeymaren acted instantly. No room for conscious thought. No time for plans. Only the absolute desperation of raw instinct, channeled into her fist as she swung it into the hag's head.

In that span of immeasurable time, a single second sliced infinitesimally thin, she saw the look of drooling lust replaced by blank shock, before the hag's head bent and flew sideways at the force of the blow.

Her other arm came free, and Honeymaren threw the next punch into the woman's open mouth.

The Northuldra struggled to her feet, the pure adrenaline making her limbs feel as weightless as matchsticks. The hag had sunk to the ground, clutching her mouth, eyes screwed shut in pain as warm thick blood seeped from between her fingers.

"You—bitth—I'll—thhill you—"

Honeymaren stepped backwards, stumbled, desperate to get away—and then fell on her back again. Sharp and jagged, the edges of the titanic roots chafed at her raw skin like the teeth of a scourge. Toes pushed into soil, fingernails dug into the space in between blades of half-frozen grass, desperate, desperate—

And then the animal pounced again.

As the woman leapt, arms stretched out with filthy nails spread like poisoned arrowheads, Honeymaren glimpsed the tattered but unmistakable grey of a Northuldra tunic clinging to her emaciated body.

Before the stench of foul rotting meat and congealing blood hit her nostrils, Honeymaren was hit first by the full horror of the realization.

_This monster was one of us._

_She was Northuldra._

She threw her arm in front of her face just as the hag pounced.

Honeymaren's head was thrown back, her body crushed. Her world was flailing whip-like hair matted and knotted with clumps of dirt and debris, her ears were ringing with the deathly rattle of her heartbeat. The monster—that _thing _that must have once been human—clawed at her shoulder, her cheeks, her neck—Honeymaren closed her eyes tightly, even as flecks of warm drool splattered her face.

Above her, she felt the weight of the hag shift, and suddenly, warm breath on her neck.

_No._

_No, no, no._

The Northuldra struggled, her arms pinned. Pushing in desperation, even as the irresistible weight of the hag pressed down on her, as she felt the ebb and flow of warm air against the bare skin of her neck. From that animalistic throat she could hear the deep guttural heaves of raw hunger and quiet anticipation—because dogs and wolves and bears did not roar or howl before the killing bite, rather they would become quiet, just before their teeth were bared and sunk into their prey—

Honeymaren flailed uselessly like a fly in a spider's web.

And then she felt it. Like needlepoints driven by crazed insane force, teeth pressing into her neck.

Honeymaren shrieked. Her lungs releasing all the air uselessly, traitorously, in a single howl of desperate terror, wasting the breath that should have gone to fueling her exhausted limbs.

She screamed, as her eyes were still screwed shut. Her mind retreating into a hollow of its own like a child curling up beneath a table in the midst of a thunderstorm, sealing itself from the absolute horror—

_I am being eaten alive._

—her heart was about to burst, pumping like a crazed engine to swill her hot boiling blood faster and faster through the pipes of her body in a dizzying current, only to sweeten the meat, to bleed out faster—

Pain burst out along her neck, across her shoulder and skin, as curved nails hardened like talons bit into her soft flesh, as teeth raked across her neck and acrid breath hissed. She could feel it, feel the angulation of the hag's jaws as they bit down, feel it closing like a trap, feel the tension in the creature's neck as it began to pull and tear at the succulent flesh so close to her carotid artery—

And then warmth. Spilling out all over her neck, her face, in an unending torrent, as Honeymaren's brain emptied from the rush of blood from her head, like a plug being pulled from a sink—

Her voice escaped from her throat in a long piercing shriek as Honeymaren's face and shoulders were bathed in blood. Warm blood, sticky blood, bubbling and cascading in waves against her closed eyes, running so hot and thick against her ears that the sounds around her faded to a dull whisper as the blood pooled and hardened against her eardrums. She didn't need eyes, didn't need to see or hear, because her mind drew its perfect image of her neck opened like a ripe fruit, spilling her life's blood like a fount—

_I'm dying—_

_I'm sorry._

_Elsa, Elsa—_

_I'm so sorry._

_I won't—_

_I won't be coming—_

And then suddenly, the weight rolled, and lifted. Her shoulders and ribcage, rebounding from the crushing force now removed, sprang back with screams of protest as her lungs filled with air.

Honeymaren inhaled. Exhaled.

The sounds were gone. As was the hot breath, and the teeth and claws.

Not daring to move, not daring to breathe, she peeled open her sticky eyelids, pasted together with dried blood.

The hag's glassy eyes glared back at her. Corneas crusted over, bloodshot and empty. She was slumped to Honeymaren's side, arms still outstretched. Her teeth were bared like fangs, still in that snarl now frozen in the rictus of death.

Her hair, her lips and neck, were drenched in blood. But—

Honeymaren's fingers crept, trembling, to her own neck. Deep marks were there, left by the hag's teeth, but—she was whole.

_Not my blood._

Her eyes stopped, over the hag's own neck. Lingered over the plume of the arrow that had buried itself just lateral to the creature's windpipe, skillfully piercing both artery and spine in a single line. The arrow that had stolen the hag's blood and breath, and in so doing, had spared Honeymaren's own.

The Northuldra woman realized something was blocking the light. Looked above, and saw the looming shadow.

At first, her crazed mind drew the outline of a forest bear, or a wolf reared up on its hind legs, ready to strike. The rising panic only cooled, when she realized that neither wolves nor bears wore quivers. Nor did they hold compound bows.

"You hit me in the side one more time," Chagan growled, "and I'll kill you for real."

Honeymaren began to weep.


	13. Chapter 13: Black

**Chapter 13: Black**

* * *

Anna's playroom had been smothered with drawings. Scribblings of crayon, smears of pastel on the backs of letter paper. Stains on her bedclothes and her rosy cheeks, she would drag sheet after sheet to her father's study to proudly display her best rendition of her favorite snowman (a creation she named 'Olaf'), a winter scene of her family playing in the snow, or a castle upon the hill. These would earn her a gentle word of praise from her father, as well as a scream of horror from the royal clerk who would often discover that the contents on the backs of these works of art were of terrible importance.

As she grew, her hobby faded into memory, but not the habits she earned. Her mind had been shaped by those flighty evenings dreaming of color and light, and committing them to paper. And so many years later, reading the regretful letters of her late father, her mind had flared to life and conjured up new shapes and colors from the stains of history.

Anna had wept as she read letter after letter. Her mind, unfettered, conjured up images of stick-thin half-naked men and women in stocks and chains, toiling at mines and work camps. Sick families huddled together, sharing a single morsel of bread. And fantastic imaginings of the horrors that must have befallen the survivors when the Mist descended upon the forest and the spirits raged.

She imagined the lost remnant in the woods—if indeed there were any still alive—frightened and hungry, the weeping skeletal figures that were but ghosts wrapped in sallow skin. She had set off with pity, with some form of compassion seeking a target—and now, only now, did she realise how naïve and off-the-mark she had been.

They had been few, and weak, and poor, and hungry—all in her mind. And just like paper burns easily in the fireplace, Anna now realized that the flimsy fantasies in her head could just as easily be incinerated by uncaring, surprising reality.

She had been looking for slaves.

She had found an army.

* * *

Ironic. That's how Huvishka saw fate, that grand wheel of _dharma _that spun ever more.

When the steppe tribes finally began to push back the remnants of the Northerners, the first things they had reclaimed were the very slave camps that they had escaped from, so many years ago. The Northern king Runeard—_a curse upon his name_—had begun an industrial operation on a hitherto-unimagined scale, with the enslaved tribes as the fuel for his engine. Whether he had sought to ramp up the production of trade goods, or envisioned something more sinister involving the militarization of his kingdom, none knew—his aspirations had sunk, together with his body, into hell where he belonged.

The past was in the past. What had once been hellion-pits of horror rife with abject misery, were now nothing more than ghosts lying in the mist, the forlorn crocus flags flapping from atop half-collapsed wooden shacks. The food stores had long been devoured by the fleeing bands of Arendellians; the supplies mercilessly scavenged. But they had no use for steel or brass; when the steppe tribesmen finally reclaimed the first camps, the storehouses were filled with rows upon rows of steel ingots, as if patiently waiting for the work to begin again.

And it did.

The makeshift tools they had used before that—ploughshares beaten into swords—were flimsy and no match for Arendellian steel. The ancient and sacred steel of the old kingdom, taken from the wrecked ships called the Fortresses of Water, _those _had been like weapons forged by gods—none could rival the workmanship of the old Xiongnu people—but still, too few, too precious, too valuable to lose. They needed new weapons. _Proper _weapons, forged by steppe hands.

Huvishka had learned his first lesson then, as a new leader of men. The warriors who followed him were cast in iron and fire, the product of the brutality of life in the Hindu Kush, or Spahan, or anywhere that the world demanded everything but offered nothing in return. They would eventually become the Black Talon—the unit of heavy infantry that would terrify the soldiers of Arendelle for years to come. But here, at thirty-five, Huvishka learned that there were nomads, and then there were nomads. It took only one soft link to ruin the chain.

The first head blacksmith had suffered in the camps, like the rest of them, but the sting of the whip-marks had faded. No doubt, he saw opportunity in the turn of events. His team had gotten to work on steel and leather, sweeping ash and snow from forgotten and forsaken anvils and forges; he had cut corners, smuggled precious metal and choice cuts of leather for bartering on the black market. There was profit to be made—in meat, in wine, in cloth, and in the smooth warm flesh of young women.

When they had next met the Northerners in the forest, the newly-forged swords snapped against Arendellian steel. Betrayed by their substandard armaments, thirty-five nomads had lost their lives.

Huvishka's vengeance came swiftly afterwards.

From then on, the smiths labored under a singular standard, a reminder of their solemn commitment to quality and the integrity of their work. Said standard being the head of the master blacksmith, cured in brine until his skin was leathery-dark, suspended by a hook at the door of the great forge.

Of course there were whispers. The brutal totem was a chilling dark omen; idle talk ceased in the forge, and there was the lingering dread that they had merely traded one life of slavery for another. Huvishka, for his part, thought that he had shown tremendous restraint in the matter. Qorchi would have executed the blacksmith's entire family and had them impaled at the gate of the camp—wife, children, babies.

The weapon was the soul of the warrior. Huvishka had forged his own sword in the forge of that very first camp they had captured from the Northerners, and into it he had poured his heart and his spirit—the savage, violent, tempestuous specter of vengeance, crystallised into metallic form.

The _khanda_—the symbol of the steppe heritage of Northern India. First introduced by the Rajput—the horse-riding cousins of the Kushans—and then the old Gupta kingdom, the fearsome blade had been adopted by the steppe tribes of the Hindu Kush as a fearsome anti-cavalry weapon. Broad and double-edged, strengthened by a plate along its spine, it had become a symbol of strength for the Jains and Hindus, seeping into their iconography and religion; _Kali _wields a _khanda _in one of her many hands, and the _bodhisattva_ Manjughosa slices through the veil of ignorance with the same sword. Yet as the Kushans and Ye-Tai moved westward, it had lingered on as part of their legacy, a reminder of their roots.

Huvishka had forged the sword himself. No other smith had touched the metal; his own hammer had beaten the steel into shape, his own hands had quenched the blade.

Into one edge, he had carved a name. _Devi._

Into the other, he carved another. _Kungas._

And now every time he swung his blade, the conflagration of blood would become a ritual sacrifice to the souls of his family.

It had always been his goal, even when the Mist still held, to return to that very same camp. The scene of that terrible night burned into his mind as if with a brand, scorching his dreams. That night, in the camp at the foothills of the North Mountain, when Huvishka had gone from a husband and father to nothing but a man holding ash and tattered cloth.

He would make it back. He would return, if only to plunge the ash back into the ground and submerge his memories once and for all.

And once more, the wheel of _dharma _had spun again. The hand of the Creator, Preserver, Destroyer—bringing the cycle back to its origin, turning fates and destinies upon the axel of time. Bringing Huvishka back, face-to-face with the very beginning of his own story.

And as he stared at the four figures in the snow—the reindeer, the young man and the woman, and the old lieutenant clad in the hated uniform of the oppressor—Huvishka knew that the wheel of _dharma _would turn once more before the night was over.

* * *

_It's real._

Torchlight danced over the polished surfaces of hundreds of scales of lamellar mail, draped over shirts of wool and silk. Dark eyes peered from behind sloped conical helmets, framed by the nose-pieces that extended downwards like horns.

_They're real. And—and they're still here._

She stole a quick glance behind, for less than a second. Kristoff had put himself beside the sleigh, one hand on Sven's back, calming the jittery reindeer. His other hand was held at his side—tense, stiff.

There was an ice axe at the bottom of the sleigh. He was thinking about it, for sure.

Anna hoped he wouldn't. _Prayed_, he wouldn't.

_We're in danger._

The stocky warrior stepped closer, grimacing through a beard that stretched wide like the blade of a Dane axe. He was shorter than Anna, but she suspected that the sheer bulk of iron-hard muscle simply did not allow his skeleton to grow any taller. Thick sinews anchored his bones, stretching the skin tight underneath his shirt of lamellar armor. His legs plowed through the snow like that of a bull, barely a grunt of effort escaping his nostrils.

Curled loosely in his right hand was the hilt of that cruel-looking blade, double-edged and wide, unornamented and without decoration. Plain, simple, a tool for a single purpose. It looked heavy—it _had _to be, big as it was. Kristoff could probably swing it if he stretched beforehand, and had a running start to build momentum.

A big, slow, ridiculous looking thing. At least they would be able to see it coming—

Anna's thought was half-finished in her head, when the warrior lifted the sword single-handedly and jabbed it towards Mattias, as easily as if he was holding a paper fan.

"Touch that sword, _Svart_, and you will be dead before it leaves its sheath."

Anna's mouth was still frozen in an 'O', as she turned ever-so-slightly to glance at Mattias. The old lieutenant's face was ashen, his right hand still frozen in place at the waist, inches away from the hilt of his infantry sword.

Mattias' eyes found Anna's, in the thinnest fraction of a moment, and caught the look in her eyes.

_Please._

The silence dragged on, like a single screeching note on a violin, ringing in Anna's ears—and then Mattias' hand dropped to his side.

"Good." The warrior dropped his own sword; the motion didn't even seem to strain his arm. "I was beginning to worry that my command of _your people's _language was rusty."

The words. _Your people._ Spat out, as if they had been soiled and filthy insects caught in the mouth mid-flight.

Her eyes wandered around. The torch in Mattias' left hand still burned bright, the light gleaming off so many polished surfaces around her. Helmets. Bucklers. And the many links of armor. Reflecting off the dark eyes set like marbles in stony faces, glaring back at her.

A thousand questions exploded in her heart, clamoring to burst from her throat. _Where have you been? What have you been doing all this while? Were there more of you? How can we help? And what—_

_Be quiet._

Anna froze. It had been her own voice, spoken back at herself in the stern tone of a queen.

_Be calm. Be alert. And be very, very quiet._

"You Northerners are a stain on our existence." The heavy-set warrior stepped closer. "My patience for you is thinner than the wings of a dead fly, and I would advise you not to stretch it any more than it already is."

"Now. Which of you is the leader of your little group?" the bearded warrior growled. The great-sword dragged in the snow, dangled loosely from the crook of two fingers. "Is it you, _Svart_?"

Anna's voice emerged from between her lips. "Actually, I—"

"_Quiet, girl," _Mattias barked. "Stand back with the boy, and be silent."

Her heart had stopped in her throat. That tone, that voice, could never—_never_—come from one of the kindest and bravest people she had ever known. And yet it had been the lieutenant's gravelly baritone behind those words, now filled with ice instead of quiet mischief.

Anna stared, eyes peeled back, lips clamped, mouth dry. If Mattias felt her gaze on him, he ignored it. Instead, he looked on ahead, at the foreign warrior.

"What did you call me?" Anna shrank back from the look on the lieutenant's face. Lips retracted in a snarl, brows drawn down in a single curve like a bowstring. Vicious, stone cold, and as out of place on his face as a ribbon on a bulldog. "_What word did you just say?_"

If anything, the venom in Mattias' voice seemed to amuse the bearded warrior. "_Svart_, I called you. Does that word offend you, soldier? Do the people of this land not call you that?"

Anna's eyes darted back and forth, between the hostile-looking stranger and the lieutenant's dark expression. Something had rung in her mind, like a little bell, some far-off garbled memory of her tutor's voice droning on and on as she stared out the window at the snowfall.

And then it clicked, and she felt her back stiffen with sudden tension.

A hundred years ago, when the first traders from Maldonia arrived at Arendelle, they had not been welcome. They looked different with their darker skin, spoke in an unfamiliar accent, and—as Anna recalled—worshipped different gods. The Maldonians had been distrusted; conflicts with the Northerners, even riots, were commonplace.

Now their great-grandchildren lived in peace with the people of Arendelle; Halima and Mattias enjoyed their lives in harmony. But one word, one _ugly _slur, had lingered on in the dirty underside of Northern society. Spoken in whispers and behind backs, in alleyways and drinking dens, out of hearing of civilized society. Yet it persisted, like a cockroach that could never really stay dead.

_Svart. _Black. Filthy, dark, unfamiliar, untrustworthy.

"Nobody has ever called me that, in thirty-four years." Mattias' knuckles paled as his fingers clenched into a fist. "Nobody's _dared._ Do you even know what it means? Who are you?"

"You do not ask the questions here. And _mind your tongue_, or I will make you swallow it." The fearsome-looking warrior pointed at Mattias, with the stump of an index finger that ended at the first joint. "You must be the leader of this group, since you wear that loathsome uniform with such arrogance. Tell me your name, _Svart_."

Mattias' cheeks paled, and Anna could have sworn the grey bristles on his fresh-shaven sideburns had perked up. And then—

"My name," Mattias answered slowly, "is—Des Andrews. I am a foot soldier in the Arendelle guard. And these—" he gestured to Anna, Kristoff and Sven "—are servants in the royal palace. Ida and Johann. We had just delivered supplies to the shop."

Anna released a breath she had been holding.

_Oh._

_Ohhhhhh._

The lieutenant's chin tilted ever so slightly towards her, and the corner of his eye caught her gaze.

"Ida here," Mattias said slowly, "dropped her shoe somewhere in the dark. We were delayed trying to look for it. And it won't happen again, _right Ida_?"

Anna nodded, and dipped her knees in the best curtsey she could manage. "No it won't." She added: "Sorry, sir."

"A royal soldier, and his servants. Lost in the woods." The warrior scratched his beard. "A likely story." His voice was still unhurried, and he ended his sentences with a slight lilt. Anna couldn't tell if he found something funny, or whether he was trying to scare them. Worst—she couldn't tell if he believed the lie, or not.

Mattias—_Des Andrews_, she reminded herself; she _had _to play along, or they would all be finished—stepped forward, his boots crunching softly in the snow.

He raised his open palms to show he was unarmed. "And _who are you_? To be marching about in Arendellian territory with weapons?"

Now the warrior smiled, a humourless grin that stretched his already thin lips to single lines of pink. His cheeks crinkled as the edges of his mouth spread to reveal two rows of yellowed teeth. But the smile never reached his eyes.

Anna's throat was suddenly very, very dry.

"Araan-dool territory. Yes, an interesting concept." A turn of his wrist, as easily as if he were stretching his joints, and the large sword swung upwards to rest on his shoulder.

"I suppose this is yet more of your—_European_—philosophy. That one could draw lines on a piece of paper, or plant flags in the wilderness, and declare ownership over a plot of land." He moved closer, with even steps. "What a fascinating way of thinking."

He stopped only a few feet away from Mattias, the scales of his armor tinkling as he drew to a halt. "Let me introduce you to how my people—the people of the steppes—think about _territory_."

The sword flew from his shoulder in an instant, pointing forward like a conductor's baton—Mattias flinched. With a sweep of his hand, the warrior gestured all around—at the darkness of the woods, and the coldness of the night.

"All around you, are three hundred of the deadliest steppe heavy infantry. Fully armed, their swords drawn, their bows ready." He slammed a fist upon his mailed armour, ringing it like a bell—the force would have broken the rib of a thinner man. "That uniform you wear, _that _is the source of their hatred. Like dogs they strain at the leash, waiting for the signal. All I need to do is give the word, and they will tear you apart before you draw another breath."

Like the rumble of distant thunder, a wave of murmurs came from all around the woods. Straining her ears, Anna could hear the sounds. Metal clinking on metal, wood being stretched under tension.

Wolves, waiting around their prey.

What was it she had said? Before leaving the castle?

_We shouldn't be gone long. I'll let Elsa do her thing with the spirits._

There was a wind blowing. But there was no playful caress down her back, no sweep of her cloak to deposit a few leaves where she couldn't reach them. Gale wasn't here. There was no way to let Elsa know where she was.

The gnawing feeling in her stomach deepened like a sinkhole. It had been the same feeling she had back when she was eight years old, when she took a flying leap off the third-from-bottom step of the big spiral staircase in the castle, only to realise mid-jump that she would land short.

She had planned it out in her head. Finding the former slaves of her grandfather—in her mind they had appeared like caricatures, dressed in rags and rusted chains—and having a tearful reconciliation complete with hugs and applause. The name of King Agnarr bringing cheers from the bedraggled ex-slaves, the kind-hearted monarch who had smuggled them away and hid them. Anna had even been subconsciously planning a party in their honour, already tallying up the cost of sandwiches and cupcakes from the bakery, and ice lollies from the sweetshop—

Just like she had when she was eight, she had jumped without looking. And now, instead of just a scraped knee, Anna faced the sinking, sickening realisation that there may not be a way home.

Anna held her breath. Fingers clutched at her cloak, she suddenly found herself missing her mother's shawl.

_When all is lost, then all is found—_

The slaves brought by her grandfather had been lost, so many years ago. And now, at last, what Anna had sought to achieve had finally happened—they had been found.

_Maybe all this time, they never wanted to be found._

_Or they wanted to find us._

"So then, Araan-dool's borders are defended by such as yourself. A single soldier, his two servants, and a reindeer." He smirked at Mattias. "Go ahead, _Svart_. Tell these three hundred men that they are trespassing. Chase them off _your _territory."

Mattias said nothing. Only squared his jaw, and maintained his steely glare. Anna suddenly felt a rush of warmth towards the man, soured by the taste of anxiety and terror. The casual rudeness towards Anna and Kristoff, because they were nothing more than servants. The pompous and confrontational tone that hid his own fear. And the growing epiphany that Mattias knew more, _much _more, than he had revealed to Anna—because from the very start, he had recognised that the warrior before them was an enemy.

Whatever happened to Mattias next, Anna knew his purpose. At any cost, he could not reveal that the Queen of Arendelle was standing right next to him.

Mattias turned, and parted his lips. A glob of spit fell into the snow like a bullet. The expression on the foreign warrior's face darkened, the smile faltering. In the darkness, they could hear the sound of bowstrings being drawn tighter.

"You savages behave like animals. You march in with no concern for law or order, demanding whatever you want." Mattias jabbed a finger at the warrior. "I do not know who you are, or where you came from. But I am a soldier of Arendelle, and your quarrel is with _me_."

Without turning his head, the same finger moved sideways, pointing at his companions. "These servants have nothing to do with you. Leave them to go back to their homes."

The bearded warrior snorted. "Very good. So I allow them to leave, to report on our positions and our numbers? You must take me for a fool."

"What, _Ida_?" Mattias rolled his eyes, smearing a contemptuous glance at the group behind him. "That poor girl is frightened out of her wits. And Johann can't even count his own fingers and toes. In fact, between them, I'd say the reindeer is the most intelligent one. Maybe you'd like to keep him for a hostage."

At the corner of her eye, Anna saw Kristoff's firm hand wander to Sven's neck, rubbing it gently. He was staring ahead, brow furrowed, shoulders stiff. Not daring to move.

A finger brushed at the flecks of snow on the warrior's beard, as he looked disdainfully at Mattias.

Then, a smile spread across his features, as he stepped backwards.

"I have a better idea."

A mailed hand reached up to his shoulder, as deft fingers worked at the strap of his chest piece. "It has been a long time—far too long—since I have met another in single combat. Such feats are forbidden by the steppe way of war as too wasteful, too indulgent. But before I was one of the horde—I am a Kushan, one of the children of the Hindu Kush. And our people value the sacred test of strength of one warrior against another."

The chest piece came loose. With a musical rattle, like casting off a curtain, the warrior flung his mailed armour into the snow. Underneath a cloth undershirt, his shoulders rolled in their joints. Wrapped in thick muscle, scarred and lacerated with numerous marks, canals gouged out long ago by the points of a whip.

"We do not forget. We do not forget the marks on our backs, or the pain in our hearts, or the dead who lie buried under the snow. And we do not forget the uniform—the colours, the _crocus flower_—worn by those who had once trodden us underfoot."

His shoulder pads followed. Light but sturdy, of boiled leather reinforced with iron strips.

"So come now, soldier of Arendelle. Let us make a wager."

The _khanda_, that fearsome double-edged sword, swung upwards, twirling easily in his wrist. "The two of us, one against the other. My warriors will not interfere. If you triumph, they will let you pass in peace. And your servants get to live. Fail, and they will be slain."

The breath snatched against the back of Anna's throat, like a wriggling gnat, and she forced down the involuntary urge to cough. Cheeks paling, eyes wide in horror, she looked at Mattias.

_No._

His eyes were steady, cool. The barest twitch at the edge of his mouth jerked his moustache upwards.

There it was. Like a flame at the edges of his irises.

_I have no choice._

"I accept." Mattias pursed his lips. "What are the terms—first blood, or first to touch the ground?" His hand closed around the hilt of his infantry sword.

The warrior threw his head back and laughed, a discordant and jarring sound that echoed through the dark sky.

"_Svart_, this is no carnival sport. We fight to the death. Either your blade takes my throat, or mine takes yours." The sword in question rolled to point at Mattias, jabbing at the crocus pin on his lapel. "Now, do not insult me further. We may be enemies, but honour demands truth in the sacredness of single combat. Now, _tell me your real name_."

The barest flicker passed over Mattias' eyelids. "I—I already have. Des Andrews. I am one of the Arendellian royal—"

"Insult me no further, _Svart_," the warrior growled. "Or I will ensure that the girl dies _last_."

The very air seemed to freeze. Anna's lungs began to burn with the tightness of her held breath.

Then Mattias straightened, and seemed to Anna to stand a half-foot taller.

"My name," he declared, in a low voice, "is Destin Mattias. Lieutenant of the Royal Arendelle Guard. Shield-keeper of the late King Agnarr of Arendelle."

The warrior's lips parted, a breath escaping in a hiss of white steam.

"Mattias." He stepped sideways, eyeing the lieutenant carefully. "You thought that I did not recognise you, then? That I have forgotten?"

The knuckles on his hand whitened, as his fingers clenched around the handle of the massive Indian sword.

"I remember, as clearly as if it had happened in the last hour. I remember your face in the light of a distant fire, and I remember what you did." His teeth drew together, like infantrymen closing ranks. "I remember that night. The ghosts of my wife and child, they remind me. Even now, they whisper in my ear, and at long last, I can put their spirits to rest."

Anna could not suppress the gasp.

She looked at Mattias. At the lieutenant whose quiet humour and stalwart spirit had comforted her in the uncertainty that had followed her crowning.

_I never participated—never, I promise you, Queen Anna—_

A forceful statement that wove its way into her heart by way of its vehemence. A statement uttered so easily, so smoothly. As smoothly as he had lied about his own name, about the identities of his companions.

She had taken it for granted that no secrets had been kept. No more doors kept locked and barred.

But she had _wanted _it, didn't she? Wanted the assurance, the peace of mind, even at the cost of blinding her own heart. The subtle arrogance of a young queen, to decree that something was so, and expect that truth would bend to her desires.

Anna felt as if the ground were slipping from under her.

"My name," the bearded warrior declared, and now all trace of humour was gone from his face, "is Huvishka, son of Vasudeva. I am the husband of Devi, and the father of Kungas, and I say their names out loud so that the spirits may bear witness that I do this deed in their memory."

He pulled the last piece of armour free from his chest, and now he stood in a simple shirt and trousers. Stocky, menacing, like a rabid wolverine. The _khanda _was no longer twirling. Now it stood still in the air, its edge pointed at Mattias.

"Unsheathe your sword, soldier of Araan-dool. _Aaya hai so jayega raja runk phakira_. I am prepared for my death. See to it that you are prepared for yours."

The old lieutenant stood in the clearing as flecks of snow billowed around his feet. His shoulders hunched, his eyes downcast, his uniform stained with the wetness of melting snow and his own sweat. Like the bodies of hanged men, his arms dangled heavily.

His head turned, like a gear on a rusty axel, until his tired eyes met Anna's own. Framed by drooping wrinkles, adorned with the grey bushes of his brows, they seeped with regret and shame.

Anna looked back. Hands clasped at her chest. Fighting the urge to rush forward, to pummel at the enemy with her fists and kick and scream at this—_this—_the impossible, the unthinkable threat, that had come like a thunderbolt out of the dark and struck their world in a blinding, swirling haze. Like a tornado tearing up the foundations of her secure assumptions, turning a trusted friend into a complete stranger.

_My fault._

_This is my fault._

_This trip was my idea. This journey up the mountain was my idea. I got us into this._

And Mattias' weary eyes looked back, with an expression that spoke without words.

_No. The sin is mine._

And then he straightened up, and the weary old man, the bedraggled lieutenant, the confidant hiding secrets, the hopeful man in the twilight of his life dreaming of Halima's warm touch—

Vanished, like dross stripped in the heat of the furnace. Leaving only one persona imbuing his body. The soldier. The warrior.

The sword hissed quietly as it slipped from its sheath. The practised instinct still lived in his nerves, his bones. His knees and feet fell into their stance without conscious thought.

"Excellent." The warrior—Huvishka—gripped the _khanda _with both hands. "We have kept death waiting for far too long."

It was then that Anna realised the soldiers around them were no longer hidden in darkness. Now, they advanced. A solid wall of iron and armour, hemming them in. She sensed Kristoff's presence as he drew closer. She could feel Sven's apprehension, could smell his fear like a living breathing aura emanating from his furred body.

No escape. No other outcome.

One would die before the end of the night.

Then Huvishka lifted the blade of the sword to his lips. Kissed it, and thrust it towards the sky above.

"_Jai Mahakali!_"

* * *

_(From the letters of the late King Agnarr of Arendelle. Dated to the twelfth year of his reign.)_

_My daughters, I hope that when the time comes, you would never know the hardship that I once did._

_For the first several years, I felt like a mason trying to build a house in the midst of a thunderstorm. The crown of Arendelle had never felt heavier upon my head. It had seemed hopeless, had felt hopeless, even. And yet against what seemed like impossible odds, we had managed to survive._

_Father had once cautioned me about relying on mercenaries. They were unreliable, cutthroat, and the annals of history were paved with the bones of kingdoms who had leaned on mercenaries to shore up their might only to have those same mercenaries grow powerful enough to challenge their rule. _

_And yet in that wild and untamed Finnish veteran, who gave not a single hoot about royalty, who insisted on being paid in the Corona mark rather than the Arendellian kroner—in Jaska Tamminen, I found comradeship._

_We found ourselves shoulder to shoulder, back to back, several times after that first campaign in the Dunbroch civil war. We started off as mercenary and client—and then, I saved his life in the battle for Inis Annwn. He repaid the favour by taking a crossbow bolt in the shoulder that had been meant for my throat. He held that one over me for a grand total of five weeks, until I carried him out of the desert as we fought a brutal rear guard action against Hayredin's army in Maldonia. And back and forth we went, forging our friendship in the crucible of combat, until Jaska Tamminen and I were sword-brothers. _

_To this day, I find myself repaying that incalculable debt I inflicted on your mother. The long lonely nights as she stared out the window of our chambers, wondering if I would return. For those months—years—Idunna was a widow. And there I would be, hundreds of miles away, aboard a warship, astride a mount, at the head of a battle formation—fighting, fighting, always fighting, for the future of Arendelle._

_There was a time when I stood at the bulwark of some remote fort somewhere in the Teuton, wondering if this would be my life. Forever elsewhere, fighting for a safer Arendelle. I wondered if it would be Idunna's fate as well, to reign as queen regnant, the only remnant of her husband being the portrait in her chambers. _

_Niccolo Machiavelli once wrote that war is the ultimate duty of a ruler, and that peace should be nothing more than breathing room for the ruler to prepare himself for war. And while his philosophy was repulsive, it was sound. I found myself eventually somehow reconciling my rebellious heart to that fate, accepting that destiny._

_And then something happened, like an earthquake shattering all I had thought my life would be, like a tidal wave sweeping away the sandcastle of my preconceived notions of my purpose._

_Elsa, my daughter—you were born._

* * *

Everything around her was ignited. Illuminated in brilliant blue, a landscape of light and power. Her body and mind trembled, the energy flowing from the snow and ice into her, flowing from her into the sky, an unbroken and never-ending chain of pure magic.

Around her, she could sense the spirits, their own distinct, radiant power swelling and spilling into the air; complements to her own, yet more ancient and more unyielding. She was not master or queen—she was one of them, and they would never be subservient to any but their own wills.

Yet even now, she could feel her energy radiating into the nexus of their collective consciousness. As if Ahtohallan itself was broadcasting the force of the tempest in her heart, and the frightening power of the rage inside.

_Honeymaren, I'm coming._

Like a web, her magic spread outwards, outwards. Multiplying and branching, with the geometric certainty of a fractal and the unopposable force of a hurricane.

The land would not deny her. The air would not keep its secrets from her. She would find Honeymaren—she _must_, and those who took her would feel her anger, her _wrath—!_

—_and bow to your will—_

Elsa breathed in, her body shuddering—her connection flowed stronger. She could feel the distant locus of Ahtohallan, the ebb and flow of that ancient magic. In her mind grew that fragment of wonder that after all this time, she had never known the full extent of her—

—_they are but motes—_

Her fingers trembled, her dress shimmered as the air billowed and eddied around her body, her hair flowed freely—

—_they will be crushed—_

Wait.

Something was intruding. Some separate strand of thought, a discordant note of consciousness and will. The words formed in her mind, flowed through her soul, and drew its own rejoinder from the magic around her—but they did not come from her. Some small, foreign signature nicked at the border of her mind, like the faintest chime of an alarm.

—_a goddess does not concern herself with the sand beneath her feet—_

Elsa's concentration frayed for the first time. Her eyes blinked, her posture faltered. The blaze of magic from her heart dimmed slightly, and she felt the overpowering tug of protest from the magical whirlwind around her, yearning for the connection to be re-established. And yet—

_Something's wrong. This isn't—this can't be—_

—_where sea-bones lay littered amidst the slumbering jötunn, wait I—_

It pulled back, strained at the leash. What was once obedient heat in her palms was now a storming, thrashing consciousness of its own; the magic that bore her onwards like a loyal steed now rampaged like a rabid wolf.

Elsa pushed herself, her heart hammering harder and louder, her eyes screwed shut as she struggled against—_that—_

She could feel the magic in her, around her, like notes of music still resonating in harmony, still responding to her touch and her thought. But they were fast becoming drowned out by a cacophonic chorus of raw, unhinged, unstoppable energy, building and rolling—

And as clearly as if in daylight, her closed eyes beheld the sight.

Ahtohallan ablaze, roaring its power into the sky like a beacon. Flaring, not blue anymore, no—now it was crimson, like a hill stained with blood, like a sentinel bathed with the sacrifice of ancients.

And a singular word burst into her mind like the blast from a battle-horn—

—_Skaði—_

Elsa screamed.


	14. Chapter 14: Eyes As Glass

**That's right, everyone. You are getting 2 chapters within a week of each other. And this one being the longest of them all, no less.**

**Read. Enjoy. Review. And feel free to shudder.**

* * *

**Chapter 14: Eyes As Glass**

* * *

**The Southern Northuldra Camp**

She had asked to be alone.

The entrance of the tent had been tied shut, the light extinguished, and the sign laid in front of her tent opening—the twin sticks crossed together. Nobody would be with her. Nobody would approach until she left the tent of her own accord. It was the privilege accorded to her as elder, and as shaman.

Her hands trembled, her breath felt like smoke in her lips and mouth, tainted by bitterness and gall. The shock had torn through her dreams like a demon screech, rousing her from a restless sleep, and only in the wan light of the morning did her senses return to clarity from the haze of petrifying horror.

_Something has blinded the spirits._

And she recognized it; the stain of the brand of magic, as distinct and foul as the scent of fox urine at a campsite. Like blood trailing in stolid dark water, drawing a million foul things from the depths.

She knew.

She had unpacked the dark materials from the deepest part of her cache. Had dug up with cold and clumsy fingers the things she swore would stay buried under the soil, beside her bed-space.

She knew it. She knew what terrible magic had blanketed the forest—if only for hours—and had left its stain. Choking the sight of Ahtohallan, turning their most sacred nexus and the spiritual center of the realm—_blind_.

She knew the chant, if only because she had heard it before. Whispered by the emaciated, dying prisoners that laid before her, hands bound behind their backs. The intruders, the encroachers, the trespassers that rightly deserved to die, by the right of the land.

Yet the words had always lingered in her mind, like the whine of flies.

_Tengri biz menen._

Before her, she drew the sign in the soil, her fingernail scraping the grains of wet sand. The stones stood upright, planted in the earth, their sigils turned outwards. She held her wrist steady with her free hand, completing the strokes of that terrible—forbidden—sign.

_Elsa, I'm so sorry._

_I never told you everything._

Carefully, she held the slender clay container with both hands, its narrow spout aimed at the ground like a spear. The libation poured into the grooves dug by her finger, filling out the sign with the profane mixture—the sacrifice, the appeasement.

_Moon-blood of a young woman. Spittle of a goat. Milk of a reindeer that has thrice miscarried. Dust from a sheet upon which adultery has been committed._

The sign filled up with the sickening substance, like a wound in the ground. The curse, the spell—it had been set, like an open mouth, like a _trap_. Awaiting its prey.

She poured forth the final offerings.

Light, and yet heavy with what they represented, the smooth ivory pebbles dropped forward from her hand. Worn away by the endless grinding of the currents, sun-scorched and hollowed out.

Bones.

She had hid them well. Elsa had held the grotesque things in her hands, and yet had not comprehended their significance—or their purpose.

Would that she would never have to perform this spell again. Would that the knowledge would be allowed to sink into nothingness, displaced by thoughts of green pastures and warm air, of the smiles of youth on hopeful faces!

Not for her. Not for the shaman.

She clasped her hands together, as she concentrated in preparation. She would know, once the dark god received her tribute. For with his mark would come the night fevers, and the hacking coughs, and the blood-stained sputum, and the cramping terrible pains, and her stool running like liquid. Such was the sign—such was the price.

"_Suhhtu…Gaskaidja…Ahčagastit…" _The words tumbled forth. At first in the Northuldra tongue, and then switching to the dark tongue of that old race of trolls and giants.

Waiting, always waiting. Children of the darkness, north beyond north. Living under the surface of things, in cracks, in hollows. Hidden from sight by power that predated Ahtohallan itself, preserved for times such as these.

Yelana opened her mouth, and spoke the name.

"_**Ruohtta**._"

* * *

**The Dark Forest**

**Two Miles from the Blue Talon Encampment**

Every fiber of his muscles was tensed in preparation, as he surveyed the thickness of the foliage with the keen eyes of a hunter. Bow at the ready, an arrow pinched dexterously between the middle and ring fingers of his free hand, a projectile ready at a moment's notice.

His voice was low, his words curt. "Can you stand?"

Honeymaren choked back a sob, her cheeks marred by two lines of pallor amidst the layer of filth; moist tracks carved out by the rolling droplets of her tears. "Yeah—yeah I can."

"Stand." Chagan was not one for wasted words. His eyes continued to jump from tree to tree like squirrels, from dark shadowy hollow to the cover of a bush, tensing in preparation of the threat he could feel.

In truth, Chagan knew that turning to look at the pathetic frame of the Northuldra may just evoke the urge to loose the next arrow right into her gut.

_Northuldra bitch._

The past ten minutes had not been comfortable. Restringing his bow and making the excruciating jog through the treacherous forest, while a fractured rib continued to flap against his lung and paint a joyful purplish bruise on his chest—by the time Chagan had managed to track down the Northuldra woman's howls, he was drenched in sweat. Every footfall and swing of his arm brought a muttered curse, every fresh stab of pain brought a silent oath to visit all manner of indignity on that shepherdess once he finally got a hold of her.

_I will break all twelve of your ribs, I promise you—_

Over his shoulder, like a hunting falcon, a phantom voice had whispered with the bemused and mildly annoyed tone of an unyielding taskmaster. He could hear Elder Qorchi speaking as if the old nomad was right next to him, keeping pace with every excruciating step.

_What, now, Chagan? Are you angry? And what is the object of your anger?_

He had doubled his pace, the pain in his side fading to a constant smolder. All the while, the voice of his elder and mentor continued to speak in that low and unwavering baritone, tinged with the chastisement of a man who had known Chagan since he had been a boy.

_Do you blame the goat for escaping its pen when you forget to lock the gate? Or the raven for stealing bread that you left uncovered? Do you get angry at the arrow for not hitting the mark on its own accord after leaving your bow?_

_She is a _prisoner, _Chagan. It is in her nature to seek freedom. She escaped because she took her chance, and she had her chance because you gave it to her. You were careless. Too confident in your strength, too complacent in your security. Now that pain in your side will be as effective as a whip-scar._

Resentment had bubbled with each hissing breath from between clenched teeth. Still the calm voice scorned and admonished, with the same tone that had scourged Chagan's pride on the training grounds of the Blue Talon camps, in the years past.

_She is your responsibility, Chagan. Handle it._

_Catch her and fix your mistake._

In the now, Chagan watched as the Northuldra began to rise slowly. Her dirt-stained breasts heaved with each deep shuddering inhalation as her cheeks flushed with the heat-glow that came after terrible exertion. Her chestnut-brown eyes, tear-streaked and glistening, stared back.

He grunted. "Watch the trees, shepherdess." Just the sight of her—_Tengri _above, his blood could boil! She jerked her head swiftly, suddenly finding the shadows of the woods a desperately interesting sight.

She was an inconvenience and a pain in the side—in this case quite literally—a liability and impedance for a nomad who had to move swiftly in enemy territory. Her death would have been more than justified, not only to execute a fleeing prisoner but to stay the penalty of death that would have fallen on Chagan's head.

And yet despite all of that—

In the span of a single breath, he had made his decision. By a matter of inches, barely the breadth of a hand, and yet all the difference in the world. His aim had guided the arrow straight and true, and now instead of killing the Northuldra—he had saved her.

_And why?_

With the firm discipline of a Blue Talon rider, Chagan swept aside his errant thoughts as if they were so many cobwebs. The decision was made, the arrow loosed, and the life taken—and another life saved. He would grapple with the how and why when he had the luxury to do so. Until then—

Chagan's ears perked and his lips went dry. The wrongness of it all had hit him quickly and his body had responded even before the realization registered in his conscious mind. Beside him, he could see the Northuldra suddenly stiffen, the same expression of alarm coming over her features.

The steppe warrior nocked the arrow to his bow. Fingers curled slowly around the drawstring, as he steadied the shaft against the groove in the polished wood.

The forest, any forest, teems with life. Large life, the deer and wolves and bears, and the little life, the leaping squirrels and flitting birds and swarming gnats and flies. Always, the sounds of life would fill the air, buzzing and chirping and squeaking—but the one thing that forest should never be is _quiet._

The air was completely and utterly silent.

And both the tribesman and the shepherdess drew involuntarily closer as they recognized the alarm call of the forest louder than any scream, the collective lull that dragged on and on. Like a breath held in the lungs until it finally burst, unbidden, from pale starved lips, with the fury of a predator striking from darkness. A bear, a wolf, or—

The hair on his neck stood erect. His ears strained, his eyes scarcely daring to blink, the muscles in his bow-arm tensing and gathering energy as his skin turned cool with the chill of adrenaline.

"Northuldra—" Chagan began to murmur.

* * *

And then from the farthest edge of the light filtering through the canopy, a shape burst from the bushes.

Sight and sound and smell assailed his senses in that fraction of a second. But it was not the sight of wide eyes and yellowish stained teeth filed to points that struck his mind first. Nor was it the belly-churning odour that roiled with a mix of decaying freshly-consumed flesh and human excrement. It wasn't the sound, that terrible bone-quaking howl that attacked his ears.

No, the very first thought that struck Chagan's mind was _range_.

_Forty five feet._

The fresh shock of pain in Chagan's side was the first signal that he had already acted without thinking, the brutality and relentlessness of Qorchi's training regimen bearing fruit. Like a viper coiling inwards upon itself building up momentum to strike, his bow arm had drawn the arrow.

Point-blank, without deliberate aim with the hunting sights, only the familiarity of posture and form—

Every hunter and marksman knew the importance of estimating distance. At a glance, barely a second, and then with mental calculations under the hottest of stressors—the known size of an object, its relative distance to a visual marker, wind movement, elevation—the disparate elements came together in a burst of instinct and intuition, and then the arrow was loosed.

Chagan was a middling marksman at best. He could name more of his fellow nomads who were better shots than were worse ones—but that contest was by the metrics of a horse archer, with the challenge of a moving mount, the unpredictability of the target's relative motion, and the divided attention required to steer a horse.

But here, now, his feet were planted on solid ground. His stance was solid, his target moving in a straight line towards him, driven forward by mindless feral hunger. Against a steppe warrior who had once practiced on horseback, against fist-sized apples and plums—

_Dead._

He loosed the arrow.

The scream rang through the clearing.

A heart-shot. Rupturing the walls of that indispensable muscular pump, disgorging life's blood with the pressure of a geyser against the ribs and chest, draining the blood from the brain and lungs in the span of seconds. That once-man, that demonic creature, it was dead before it hit the ground.

Chagan was already moving, stepping backwards with his back against the tree as the next arrow found its way to the bow.

More shapes now, from the undergrowth. Low shapes, creeping shapes.

Human shapes.

He shot again. His eyes followed the path of the arrow long enough to see that it struck the centre of another shape, but he didn't look for long. Couldn't, because the danger was already upon him.

One of the wild things had managed to circle around. Perhaps driven by some presence of mind or feral intelligence, perhaps only by luck. But the slavering, spitting, drooling creature with ashen hair, sickly jaundiced eyes and long nails was now nearly upon him.

Clutched in thin but immensely strong fingers, was what looked like a club. Foot-and-a-half and wielded with deadly purpose.

_Transition._

Chagan's fingers released their grip on the recurve bow just as the bowstring caught neatly against his wrist, sliding down the length of his forearm as he lifted his hand in a single smooth motion. Suspended on the bowstring, the bow slipped deftly from his wrist to the back of his shoulder in a quick motion that took less than a second—his hands were now free.

The beastly once-human paused only for a moment, to adjust its grip on the dirt-caked club as it readied for the killing blow. Yellow eyes open wide in madness, it shrieked from a maw ringed with teeth filed to points, as it charged forward.

Chagan threw up his left arm, his bare torso arcing backwards as if in recoil. Sensing hesitation and shock, the beast plunged onward with the club raised, snarling as it threw the full weight of its body into one brutal swing of its club to smash bone and flesh.

Then as it came close to its prey—too close—the creature's wild eyes spotted the glint of polished metal from beneath the shield of its prey's left arm.

Too close, moving too fast, too late—the once-man realized that what had looked like a desperate reflex of a fearful prey was only a _feint_.

Chagan's eyes were colder than steel.

Even in leisure, the time of the steppe warrior was occupied by sport designed to prepare the body and mind for the battlefield. After the forced marches and weapon drills and maneuvers on horseback, the brash and impetuous steppe youths would engage each other in feats of bravado and strength—namely _khalkha bökh_, the traditional sport of wrestling. Bare except for either loincloths or trousers, they would attempt to push one or the other to the ground, the fight conceded once chest, knee or elbow touched the soil.

Chagan had been forced to the mud more times than he could count, had been pummeled into defeat by larger and stronger opponents not at all prone to restraint. But the endless impromptu matches—encouraged, he suspected, by Qorchi as a form of 'unofficial' training—had bred a sense of balance and coordination. Knowledge of the body, and of the weight and feel of movement. Knowledge that, in the midst of battle, could mean life for the warrior—and death to the enemy.

With the instinct of a wrestler, Chagan pivoted his body, his hips directing his center of gravity smoothly as his feet planted themselves in the earth. Slipping sideways as the creature charged with its club raised, too late to change direction, too late to redirect its blow.

Too late, to avoid the long-knife clutched in Chagan's right hand.

The blade slashed, across the long fingers clutched around the filthy club. As blood splashed across the monster's grey tunic, a howl filled Chagan's ears. Like diseased bloated leeches, the severed fingers fell from its maimed hand as the club clattered to the ground.

The knife spun deftly as Chagan reversed his grip, plunging his hand in a wide arc towards the creature's face. All thoughts of hunger, of predation, had vanished like mist in the sunrise. Now it was nothing more than a simple animal reacting out of instinct and self-preservation, and it threw both arms up in desperation. Prey and hunter had reversed their roles—and Chagan embraced the change with unwavering ruthlessness.

No wasted movement, nothing but simple economy. Arresting the blade in the middle of its arc, the tribesman plunged the curved tip of the long-knife downwards, into that spot between its legs. Before the screech of agony had left the creature's toothy maw, Chagan had already sliced downwards, through muscle, nerve, and the wide artery of the groin. Emasculating, crippling, then killing—sequentially, in a single ripping motion across a distance of centimeters.

The blade slipped out easily. As a torrent of warm arterial blood erupted from the wound, the creature collapsed backwards, its trousers drenched and stained black.

The bow slid back into Chagan's hand as he surveyed the three bodies that now lay on the forest floor. The furthest two were dead. The third one, shivering and gibbering on the ground with skin mottled and ashen, would join them in minutes.

The air was quiet again. The smell of death was rising, pungent—there was nothing poetic about it, simply the fact that men tended to defecate when they died.

He knew they had to move. He had been lucky. No self-respecting Tengrist tempted the luck of the Eternal Sky more than once, unless he needed to.

"Pick that up." He growled at the shepherdess, jabbing at the club that now lay in the dirt. "Make yourself useful."

She was staring at the club, the blush draining from her cheeks, her hands trembling.

"Is that—that is—oh—"

The shepherdess clapped a hand over her lips.

"That is _human_."

Chagan's eyes darted to the club, blackened and twisted. What had looked at first like the stripped limb of a tree now revealed more peculiar features. A shaft that narrowed at the middle and swelled to a promontory at one end, from which protruded a smooth ball-shaped knob. Blackened with soot and then hardened over a flame, it was still unmistakably the shape of—

_A human thigh bone._

"Well, Northuldra," Chagan murmured, "I think we've finally solved the mystery of how your people survived in the Mist."

The air churned with blackness; the forest, with evil. Like a toxic gas, odorless, colorless, yet crippling the heart with dark thoughts and squeezing the vessels beneath the skin. Chagan could smell it, hear it, feel it.

The woods were teeming with them.

"Move." He gripped the shepherdess' wrist. "_Now_."

* * *

**Arendelle**

"And _what _exactly are you going to do about that, Kai?" A hiss exploded from between pursed lips, like the whistle of a crossbow quarrel.

The steward sighed. It was Magnusson's signature style to begin every conversation as if it was already the middle of a heated argument.

"_We_," Kai allowed a fraction of a second to hang around that first word, "will take in the Northuldra, just like we have agreed to do. Queen Anna's intentions were made abundantly clear."

"That's eighteen hundred more." Magnusson threw up his arms, his sleeves almost straining at the seams—his was the physique of a line infantryman, not a statesman. "They must just be _pouring _out of the forest by now. Are we to be swamped by Northuldra month after month? Will it be our people that have to take to build huts in the trees?"

Kai quelled the bitterness on his tongue. Old prejudices died hard, or refused to die at all. Magnusson was old guard—he had bled alongside King Agnarr in shield wall after shield wall, had re-established the royal guard after it had been decimated, had planted forts and outposts on the borders of their kingdoms. A man of the frontier, who thrived with the enemy in his sights. He always felt more comfortable in mail, not velvet, and the slipperiness and changing landscapes of governance throttled him.

Five hundred years of tradition, superstition and rumour had dictated that the Northuldra were the enemy—mothers still slipped twigs of elm under the mats of their doors to deter the 'forest people' from stealing their newborns. That Magnusson tolerated their presence at all was a miracle in itself—Kai knew better than to push his luck.

"You know full well that land is available. And this isn't some sort of wave—the Plum Birch tribe have been forced to move due to the loss of their herds to rinderpest. There is land—" his finger trailed the map spread over the desk "—just here, at the Vestfold municipal. Our new low-cost housing project will put a roof over these new arrivals."

"Fantastic. I don't suppose you've forgotten that we've promised the Cheimonas traders their own quarter five months ago?" Magnusson's upper lip curled. "A fine thing it would do for trade relations, right there, for one of our oldest partners to see prize land go to housing unbathed forest-dwellers in furs."

"I'm more than aware of how we stand with Nikephoros." Kai kept his voice level. It was an old dance—let Magnusson rage and rage, stay steady and calm, and then steer the conversation back to more tepid waters. "Fret not, I have sent assurances to him as well as his representative here in Arendelle. We have ample room to construct a new quarter at Akershus. It would be good business for our masons."

"A _pox _on the masons," growled Magnusson. "I want to know what kind of message this sends to the citizenry. You know what it takes to be a part of this kingdom. The oath to pledge, the song to memorise, forms to fill, addresses and family names to document, it's enough to make one _vomit. _Then, here come these savages—"

"Magnusson." Kai's voice was ice.

"—here _they _come out of the woods, and they get the right to settle where they please, farm and hunt where they want! Do you think enough of them read and write, that they can fill up a census form? And how do you propose to exact taxation from a people group _with no concept of currency_?"

Kai exhaled, pinching his nose bridge. He could, of course, marshal up counter-arguments. Like the fact that the Northuldra once occupied the whole land of Arendelle from the fjord to the far coast, and hence had the right of settlement anyways. Or that given the historical wrong incurred by the people of Arendelle, the Northuldra would, by conventional law—even dating back to the age of _Vikingr_—be not only exempt from taxation but _owed _reparations.

Kai also knew that he would be wasting his breath and energy. Magnusson was a warrior, and when a warrior's blood is up, his ears fill with the sound of his own heartbeat. Talking was useless, but Kai was a Snoob bureaucrat, and he was not used to spending time—even idle seconds—uselessly.

Instead, he marched briskly to the neat rows of carefully catalogued letters, missives, and documents. Each filed according to date and place of origin, marked with tabs that overlapped like the fins of a great marine creature, draped over the mahogany table.

"Here's something interesting." His fingers brushed over the colored tabs with the ease and precision of a maestro—a master of letters, of documents, of the life's blood of bureaucracy. "A letter sent a few days ago, addressed from your office."

The general's back straightened, and Kai could see the knuckles of his scarred hands turn white as he gripped the armrests. "You have been monitoring my _mail_?"

"I have been monitoring _official correspondence_, Magnusson. Letters bearing our letterhead and our seal." Kai retrieved the document he had been looking for. "Rest assured, in any other—private—matters, you have my discretion."

In truth, Magnusson's recent whirlwind affair with the countess of Soren was something Kai was aware of, as was their steamy and often—_graphic—_exchange of letters. The letters lingered at Kai's desk only long enough for his brief perusal. So long as nothing was divulged that would put Arendelle at risk, Kai was only too happy to let the torrid letters carry on their merry way to ignite the dear woman's nighttime dreams.

Kai watched Magnusson's shoulders sag slightly, as he relaxed his posture; still, the general eyed him with a smoldering glare.

"I have the authority, Magnusson. Do not forget." Kai's voice was level, calm, poised. "This letter was addressed to Gallowglass Trading and Solutions, in reply to a message they sent to your desk three days prior."

The steward unfolded the letter, but it was more a force of habit than anything else. Kai's eidetic memory had put him consistently at the top of his class at Snoob. He never needed to read a letter more than once.

"They made an offer of certain _services_ to Arendelle, in the interests of, and I quote, 'security and mercantile affairs.' In other words, _mercenaries._" Kai paused to watch Magnusson's expression. The general's glare hadn't wavered. "You were enthusiastic in pledging up-front payments in engaging said services. With Arendellian funds."

Magnusson's lip curled upwards. "That's within my jurisdiction. I have the authority to manage our military budget as I see fit. You know as well as I do that our position is extremely precarious now, with a change in monarch and about five thousand new arrivals to Arendelle. We need swords, and we need the men to wield them. And I'm not talking about Lieutenant Mattias."

"_General _Mattias," Kai corrected.

"_Lieutenant_." Magnusson hissed. "Our queen can hang all the medals and decorations she wants on his neck. You know as well as I do that putting _him _in charge of soldiers is lunacy."

The general rose from his seat with a surprising quickness, given his age. "Here's what I have at my disposal, now. Five hundred elite infantry, three hundred crossbowmen. Maybe about two dozen horsemen, if you count those who can ride and fight at the same time. If it comes down to it, we can raise maybe two thousand or so as levies from the cantons and municipals—something that hasn't been done since King Haakon, by the way. Are you still counting? _That's it. That's all we have._"

Magnusson thrust his finger down on the map. "Any one of our neighbours can field standing armies of at least _five thousand_. The Hejaz faction of the Barbary pirates—_ten thousand_. So yes, Kai, _damn well we need mercenaries._"

The steward folded the letter neatly along its crease, his eyes never leaving Magnusson's face. "You're wrong on one account," Kai rebutted. "You do indeed have full control over our military budget. But contracts with independent private military companies come under trade and mercantile spending. In other words, Magnusson, your expenditures can only come to pass if I approve of them."

"You're pulling _this _on me, now?" Magnusson drew closer. "I don't hear one argument against bolstering what's left of our threadbare military. Any band of peasants with pikes could probably overtake one of our cantons right this instant." He straightened one of his sleeves, his eyes dark. "If this is political grandstanding to feed your ego, _we've got a problem_."

"I've got no problem with that. In fact, I do agree with you. It's not the first time we've used mercenaries to supplement our kingdom's defenses. _And watch your tone._" Kai held up a hand, his tone mollifying. "What I _do _have a problem with, is the company itself. This entity, Gallowglass."

"What's there to look into? It's a trading company that also loans out mercenaries. Those are a dime a dozen." Magnusson sniffed, scratching the bristles of his goatee. "I didn't jump into this without looking. Gallowglass has been operating out of Osterholdt for the past five years and from all accounts, nothing remarkable. Relatively new, a decent track record, and definitely no involvement in any of the _atrocities _ravaging the continent, with all the rampaging rogue war bands roaming the countryside."

Kai nodded. He had received a similar letter a few days prior, one to which he had offered a cautious reply. Promising nothing, except the potential for future correspondence.

Yet his subtle and sensitive sense of unease had been alerted. Gallowglass had sent more than one letter—to Kai, one emphasizing the potential for trade and recuperating financial losses; to Magnusson, one promising the availability of swords-for-hire.

"You're right on that account." Kai decided to throw Magnusson a bone. "They've got a clean record thus far. And _that's the problem_."

His fingers found another document, pulling it from his rack.

"Here's the only summary I could find of their trading records from May of last summer. Have a look." The slightly-yellowed document pivoted smoothly between his fingers, swinging over to Magnusson. The general opened it with a scowl.

"I don't see the problem here. I may not be a damned bureaucrat, but even I can see that positive numbers mean profit." He flipped the page. "And there is a _lot _of profit."

"And that's the thing. Profit is good. Trading companies usually take a loss, sometimes several. Occasionally, they break even. If things go well, they turn a profit with one or two endeavors that help them stay afloat and continue working."

Kai tapped the top of the page in Magnusson's hands. "But what kind of trading company can turn a consistent profit on _every single possible avenue _in the middle of an ongoing continent-wide conflict?"

"One that's good?" Magnusson scowled.

"One that's _too good_." Kai pulled the document from his hands.

"Here's another thing. Their mercenaries." Kai pushed another sheet into Magnusson's hands. He chose a relatively simple one to understand—he was fast approaching the limit of the general's patience. "Tell me what you see."

Fortunately, Magnusson was still playing along. "It's a mercenary's dossier. Some bloke by the name of Huguemont. Twenty-eight years old, former Corona infantryman, now employed by Gallowglass, lives just outside Osterholdt." He flipped the sheet over. "And that's it. What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"_Exactly_," Kai enthused. "Where is his record of enlistment? What is his service record? When was he discharged? What is his serial number? His salary record? It's gone. An empty hole. As far as the paper trail is concerned, Mr Huguemont, twenty-eight years old, materialized out of thin air into the employ of Gallowglass Trading and Solutions."

"There's always a paper trail. _Always_." Kai began pacing as he repeated an aphorism drilled into him at Snoob. "This isn't the first mercenary company to sponge the records of its employees. You know as well as I do that these sell-sword bands tend to soak up the drunkards and dishonorably discharged bumpkins that dribble out at the tail end of every army. Any merc captain worth his salt knows how to fudge the records and put a fresh layer of polish over a turd."

"Records can be forged. They can lie dormant, they can be hidden behind false leads. But the one thing that they shouldn't be is _erased_." Kai ran a hand through his hair. "It's been like this, for every mercenary whose files I could secure. I pride myself on being meticulous. I've never before found records to be completely _blank_—until now."

"You're right, Magnusson. They're good." He drew closer. "They're _too good_, and I have not brought the kingdom this far without being _cautious_."

"You're paranoid, is what you are. Wasting time." The general flicked the document onto the desk, like a crumpled ball of litter. "It's war. Records go missing. It happens. You're going to let Arendelle's defenses continue to go naked, all because of a _hunch_?"

"The council—"

"—the council's opinion is irrelevant. You can override any decision they make. _You know this_." Magnusson stepped closer.

"I will bring this before the queen. She—"

"She is _what, _Kai?" Magnusson deflated his cheeks. "Out having another picnic? Prancing down at the dock? When was the last time she actually participated in a council meeting? When did we last actually need her input on matters of governance?"

"Magnusson." Kai's brows narrowed. "I will not tolerate _seditious_—"

"Oh _be quiet Kai_!" The general thundered. "I let you listen to the sound of your own voice for _three minutes_, now you listen to mine." He paused to inhale; when he spoke again, his voice had dropped. "You know very well whose hands hold the reins of Arendelle. You know to whom the powers behind the throne of Arendelle answer to. _He _did this for a reason, so many years ago. King Agnarr was thinking of this day, thinking of his daughters. That's why the council—those fools sitting around that table—still think that your job is to serve biscuits and remind the queen of appointments. That's why they think all I do is look pretty for parades. And that's why they think the Bishop does nothing but give sermons."

Magnusson strode around the large desk; it was an impedance, a sight that irritated him. "Remember what _he_ told us, so many years ago? 'There is the semblance of power, and then there is power itself.' To hold power and then not use it, is to surrender it to others. The council, they are figureheads, stuffed shirts. _You are not._"

He was now standing in front of Kai; only an arm's length separated them. The scarred general, the steadfast steward.

"That's the reminder." Magnusson pointed at Kai's right hand, clutching at his handkerchief. The simple, nondescript ring adorning his little finger. "You have the authority. And you seem to have forgotten it in recent times, _Tower_."

Kai raised his hand, closed in a fist. "And you forget your own place, _Warder._"

For a long time, both men stood. Looking each other in the eyes. In the silence, the chirping of songbirds outside the window sounded discordant and unwelcome.

Kai broke the staring contest first.

"I will consider it, Magnusson._ Consider_. I make no promises." Kai adjusted the plain metal ring on his finger. "If we are to bring in foreign troops onto our soil, we will also need to speak to the Northuldra. They are the natives and they have the right of settlement. Don't forget that Elsa lives with them now."

"I haven't." Magnusson stepped back. "I'm happy she's where she is, now. Having a daughter of King Agnarr in a position of leadership among the Northuldra would be an asset, eventually. Even without considering what she can do."

Kai turned his eyes on the general again. "We have been through this. She is _not_—"

"Save it, Kai. I know which battles to fight, and which ones to concede." Magnusson held up a hand. "You've made your position clear."

"It's not my position. It's that of the _Queen_."

Magnusson made a noise halfway between a rasp and a cough. "In any case, I believe that—"

He turned his head. Kai mirrored the motion, similarly distracted. The noise had been gathering out in the corridor for some time, but now it had grown too loud to ignore.

Footfalls, insistent and hurried. Military boots thudding onto the carpeted floor, tremors vibrating through the wooden panels underneath.

The door was flung open, the ornate metallic knob slamming into the wall like a hammer. Four pairs of eyes landed upon the guard now leaning against the doorway, breathing heavily.

"Sirs—my apologies for the intrusion—this is urgent." The young man gripped his knee, panting heavily.

"What about?" The general's tone was venomous, but Kai sensed restraint under his voice. His fury had a reputation of its own—nobody troubled him in the middle of a private meeting unless it was extremely important.

"Down in the infirmary, sir." The soldier took a single shuddering breath, straightening his posture. "A Northuldra—badly injured. He arrived—just outside our gates—It's bad, sir. He has news, and he needs to—to give it to you."

"Northuldra?" Magnusson stiffened. Kai, meanwhile, had already swept up the errant documents and filed them neatly in their place; the consummate bureaucrat.

"Yes. A member of one of the northernmost tribes, led by one called Olle. Sir—you better hurry, sirs. He—the doctor says he is unlikely to survive till sunset."

"What is he saying?" Kai asked, buttoning his coat.

"He says—sirs, he says that the Northuldra are under attack. And—Arendelle is next."

Kai and Magnusson spared only the briefest of moments in sharing a glance. The old general's hand had flown to his side; the vestiges of muscle memory summoning it to the hilt of a phantom sword no longer there.

Then, with the speed of men half their age, they raced towards the infirmary.

* * *

**The Forest**

Honeymaren's feet chafed. The mud between her toes was beginning to darken with the blood seeping from the cuts and abrasions over her skin.

He turned in her direction, scanning the perimeter, and a blush suddenly overcame her. For one stupid second, she crossed her hands over her breasts. Then—forcefully, she put her arms down, and struggled to keep pace with him.

_What are you thinking, Maren?_

Her pace quickened; the years of herding reindeer and darting into the river to hand-catch breeding salmon had honed her stamina. And yet, her pace was beginning to lag behind that of the tall warrior. Pushing herself just that little bit more, lengthening her strides just a few inches further—and she could feel the strain, biting away at her sides.

Fifteen minutes ago—an eternity ago—she had gambled. Gambled, that the rock she had driven into the side of a wounded, exhausted, feverish tribesman would slow him down. Would cripple him, would give her a chance of escape. And now, she watched as his long strides cut through the undergrowth like twin scythes, his movement precise and deft. Staring at the plumes of the deadly arrows in his quiver, bouncing against his bare back—each one a promise of death and incapacitation, a promise that so far he had delivered without fail.

The nausea boiled in her throat, the bitterness stung the back of her tongue. The gaze of that fiendish hag, teeth bared and eyes bulging in madness and hunger. And then—the horror that had pushed her mind to the brink of stability—more, more demons emerging from the woods. Demons that wore the cloak of flesh of one of her own, of _Northuldra_—

Strands of thought were drawing together, knitting themselves into a tapestry of horrors that displayed themselves against the backdrop of a disbelieving, reeling mind.

_There were always tales—some of the tribes—separated in the Mist—_

The old bedtime terrors. The children of Ruohtta, those given over to the spirits of madness and hunger, who crossed the threshold and feasted upon the forbidden flesh—barred forever, from the hearth-fire, from the circle of lights; bound to the will of the dead god.

_And you will know them by their eyes, for they shall be as glass—_

Every second of that scene had imprinted itself upon her mind, like the marks of hot brands. She could smell the decomposition between the teeth of the once-men, could hear the rattle of breath in their throats. She could feel the shiver of the air, almost as if the _forest _was rejecting the horror, as if the spirits could not bear to be in the same space as the abominations. And then, the terrifying _fight—_

_No. _No, she corrected herself, her heart hammering, her lips dry. _Fight _implied an even contest of strength. It was—the warrior had _slaughtered _three of the monsters within the span of a single minute. It had been over before Honeymaren had remembered to _blink._

Sheer efficiency, the economy of movement. Nothing had passed from between his lips except the faintest sound of exhalation. And his eyes—_his eyes—_Honeymaren shivered. Devoid of light, like the eyes of a falcon diving onto a hapless rabbit; the transparent sheen sliding over the corneas like a visor. As if he could already see it in his mind, could see his enemies—no, his _prey_—dead, even before the fight had begun. As if all that was needed, was to match deed to thought.

_I should be dead._

It was unnerving. The warrior's pursuit had taken nearly no time at all. Even with the time she had bought with unstringing his bow, and hampering him with an injury, he had caught up with her easily. In the time when she had been pinned down by that—_thing_—he had taken the time to make his choice. A choice made with a single shot from his bow that put an end to that half-human, and saved her life.

_But why?_

It gnawed at her, even as she dashed through the dizzying lattice of light and dark cast by the leaves overhead. The fact that the warrior had her completely at his mercy, and had not only spared her life but _saved her_—it hung over her, a pall of dread.

Because if he was keeping her alive—_what for_?

Honeymaren's foot slipped; she grabbed a nearby branch just in time. The warrior's figure was a shadow moving ahead, just in front. Glimpses, of a scarred back, of the tip of the recurve bow.

The most obvious reason was also the most chilling one. _Bait._

One arrow to her leg—and Honeymaren had not the slightest doubt that he could make that shot—and she would be nothing but a quivering, limping thing hobbling along the forest floor. Like a hunk of raw bloodied meat tossed into a wolf's den, nothing but a diversion—while he slipped away to escape.

He could be saving her for such a moment. The way a hunter would save an arrow in his quiver, or a knife in his belt. Nothing more than a tool, to be used when the time was right, and not a moment sooner.

The thought clutched her brain like the talons of a hawk, gripping her with icy cold fingers. The feeling—overwhelming and merciless—of being _prey_, of being nothing more than helpless meat running on legs.

She fought the urge to laugh, at her urge to cover her own naked breasts. Her modesty was a distant thought, a _stupid _notion, because she was well and truly naked in every sense of the word. The idea that the warrior, the hunter, the _killing machine_, could be impeded in any way by something like _clothing _was side-splittingly hilarious. Oh, _oh, _of course. _Side-splitting. _A timely reminder that she had broken his rib and given him even more reason to kill her.

She had continued running, her legs propelling her onwards, and she hadn't noticed the imposing shadow that had risen in front of her until she had almost crashed into the tribesman's bare chest.

Her eyes caught it all in that instant. His entire body straight and taut like a slingshot, the perfect line formed by his broad and defined shoulders and traced along the contour of his arms, down to the straight line of the arrow nocked at his bow.

Eyes of the wolf, pinned upon her.

Honeymaren's heart stopped. It had been the same look she had seen, an eternity ago, when he had faced her on that bloody field outside Olle's camp. Knife in hand, locked in the dance of death. The look of pure, utter, murderous intent.

_Death, looking me in the eye._

"Down, shepherdess."

Her hair ruffled, the movement of wind slipping past her cheek like a kiss, her head jerking to the side far too late. The arrow hissed past her face, her ears stinging with the high-pitched whine of its path through the air.

Behind, she heard the rasp of breath arrested in a throat.

Honeymaren whirled around, her head suddenly light. The creature lay still on the ground, claw-like fingers splayed out in front of it, the arrow embedded in its throat. The soil darkened and bubbled as arterial blood poured and pooled underneath the skeletal body.

The thing—it had been feet away, mere _seconds _from pouncing, and all this while, silently stalking her, she hadn't even heard it approach.

She felt like throwing up.

Abruptly, she felt a weight being thrust into her hands. Her fingers had closed around the shape before she recognized the leather-bound wooden frame of the warrior's quiver, and the deadly arrows within.

He stared at her with cold eyes, two arrows clutched in the free fingers of his bow hand.

"Hold my spare arrows. If you can't keep your eyes open, at least be useful."

He moved on.

Again. _Again._ She was dead to rights, and he had every opportunity to leave her to be devoured. Saving himself an arrow, raising his chances of escape. And yet, he had shot—again—and saved her life—_again_.

_Don't look a gift-reindeer in the mouth._

Her best, and only, hope of survival, lay in making sure that she was more useful to him alive rather than dead.

Honeymaren followed him, legs threatening to cramp up, sweat rolling in beads down the lines of her toned abdomen. The quiver slung over her shoulder, and a prayer on her lips.

* * *

Chagan was moving on pure instinct. Weaving his way through the trees, his hunter's training taking over, his keen eyes picking out forgotten trails overtaken by undergrowth. Charting a safe path through the forest, through the _nightmare_.

His heart was thundering, as if Daichi Tengri was beating it like a war drum. His limbs felt light, and yet—cold, at their extremities, as if his blood had been drained and pooled closer to his organs, like rations in wartime. His skin crept with the chill of the forest air, heavy and biting—_why hadn't he grabbed his shirt_?

He had seen the look in the shepherdess' almond eyes, had seen the flare of her nostrils and the pallor of her cheeks. Fear. But more than that—the vestiges of another expression. Desperation, and the faintest whisper of hope. She was clinging to him like a stranded goat, or a stray kitten, desperate for the promise of survival.

_I have no idea what I'm doing._

He had seen the look of terror in her eyes, when she flinched from his touch. When his shaking hands had just taken the lives of the three cannibals. Something akin to a terrified awe, the gaze of a frightened lamb at a seasoned killer.

The Northuldra had no way of knowing that until the sunrise of that day—

_I've never killed before._

He _still _couldn't believe it. The instinct had taken over his brain like a battle-spirit sent from the Red Sky, moving his limbs and his fingers before his mind had fully caught up. The bow had been drawn, the knife swung. Perfect, unerring. A murmur of thanks rose briefly from his heart, at the torturous and unrelenting training imposed by Qorchi—to take a youth, to break and tear him down, to smash and grind him into the ground like powder, and then finally to build him back into a warrior. A Blue Talon Rider.

But when the moment came—when the infinity of a single second loomed ahead of Chagan like a chasm—he had killed. Killed, killed, killed; four times had he moved, four lives had he taken. And all of Erlik's demons could not match the overpowering terror that had gripped his heart when it was over—

Of how easy it had been.

The tension of the string. The feel of his shoulder pulling back, the tension across his back, the sharp stinging ache in his wounded side. And then, release. It was as if a blinder had closed over his eyes, like over a warhorse—no, rather, a _helmet_—and once more he was at the range, Qorchi's barked commands in his ear, the war drums sounding all around him. The target ahead, the bow in his hand. And only once the act was done did the mist lift and his eyes no longer looked upon a circular straw target in the distance—but the glassy and unseeing eyes of a once-human, slumped upon the ground.

_Move. Move, Chagan. _Qorchi's phantom voice sounded in his ears.

_You do not have the time. Later, much later, if you survive—you can allow the man to breathe, to sink into his thoughts, to wrestle with his conscience. But this is no place for the man. Hide the man, Chagan—_

_And let the wolf run._

"This way. The river." His words were short, his breaths shallow. The Northuldra followed, her loose hair bouncing against her shoulder, her braids come undone.

His ears were tuned, as sharp as a blade. The forest was getting louder now, much louder. Like a wave of sound, and with each passing second he could plot the trajectory of that wave, rolling forward—he could almost see those painted teeth and skeletal bodies, crawling from the forest—

_The river. They're moving towards the river—_

_No. No they're not._

_They're moving towards the __**camp.**_

Chagan's heart surged, his blood rising in temperature. They were close now, closer to the river. He could smell the moisture in the air and the scent of the forest, gathered upstream in eddies and mixed like a potpourri, poured downstream into so many tributaries.

He hastened. Moving forward.

They were almost there.

_Warn Qorchi. Warn the others. We need to reach—_

And then what his eyes had mistaken for rows of trees by the riverside, finally came into focus. And Chagan felt his lungs fill suddenly with lead.

They stood, like phantoms. Clad in tattered cloth, their skeletal limbs wielding weapons of wood and bone. Their hair long and braided into whips. Reindeer antlers bound to their heads by cords, their eyes glazed and glassy.

An army.

And beyond the opposite bank, he saw more of their number. Creeping, running, shambling—towards the far side. Towards the Blue Talon camp.

He crouched down into the cover of the shrubbery and fallen trees, only to find that the shepherdess had already done the same. Arm pressed against his chest, he could feel the beating of his heart reach a fever pitch.

_They haven't seen us._

Behind, the sounds drew closer.

_Trapped._

The moment hung in the air, like an arrow in flight. The sight of yellowed teeth filed to points, the smell of detritus and rotting meat. The sound of footfalls.

He grabbed the bare shoulder of the shepherdess. She recoiled only slightly, before turning to face him. Her eyes were moist, her lips quivered, and the colour receded even further from her cheeks.

"Northuldra," he said, his voice harsh. "Run for the camp, and run now. Warn them. Do not try to escape any other way—your only hope of survival is _there_. With them, their numbers, their weapons."

_What is one life, compared to the horde?_

"But they will—" she stuttered, looking into his own eyes. Chagan could see the reflection of his own face in their sheen.

"I will hold them off. Give you time." The arrow came up, nocking into the groove of his compound bow. "And after that, _Tengri_ will welcome me into his pastures."

_My flesh will be defiled. But what is flesh, but a weak covering? Whether eaten by men, or wolves, or worms—_

_Only the soul matters, in the end._

He watched her legs curl in tension, her calves tightening. Her naked body glistened with sweat and mud, the moisture running down the loose tufts of hair over her face, the rosy redness of her lips. The way the vermillion fold overlapped across one another as she focused ahead.

Then—

"I'll come back for you." She was looking at him. "I promise. I'm bringing help."

A slender hand, tanned and coarse from labour, found his shoulder. "I _swear._"

Chagan felt as if he had once again been struck between the eyes with a club. He looked again, into the bright eyes of the young woman. The enemy, the member of that race which had tormented his own tribe for so many years. The hated scourge that communed with devil-spirits and brought plague and destruction. The eyes of a woman whose people had eaten of fruit fertilised by the corpses of the steppe tribes.

His side burned, at the wound she had inflicted with her club and then exacerbated with a blow from a river rock. His eyes lingered over the bandage around her forearm, soaked and fraying, the dark patch showing the ugly wound only recently sutured by Abaqa—his knife, into her flesh.

_Fate makes strange bedfellows._

_And strange companions._

He found his voice again, nocking the arrow to his bow—it had slipped out when his fingers had loosened in surprise.

The wolf reasserted itself.

"Don't waste your time," he growled. "I'm already dead, and it'll be for nothing if you don't warn the camp."

He gripped her arm—her _good _arm—and pushed her forward. Yet the clench of his fingers was looser, softer, than even he expected.

"Go. _Go now_. I'll buy you time."

She looked back at him, brown eyes set in slender frames, looking over her bare shoulder with her hair cascading over her naked spine.

"Chagan—"

"Go." He looked down his bow, and she understood.

_Mother, care for Berke and Batu. Remember me, when the days grow cold; remember that I was brave._

_Khan Tengri, receive your son._

_Mother Nachigai, protect your people._

_And Erlik-Khan, lord of demons and the underworld. Send your warriors now, and let the son of your enemy terrify his foes one last time._

He watched as she moved forward, breaking into a run. No more thoughts of stealth or subterfuge; she could no more trick or evade the swarm than she could a hurricane. She was fast, leaping over fallen branches like an antelope, driven by desperation.

Ahead, he saw the closest few figures in the crowd turn their heads. Turn their glassy gazes, and bare their teeth.

His arms moved again, the bow curving in tension. The plume of the arrow drew closer, the shaft held between his fingers. The feathers touched his lips—the _anchor_, the point on face or neck upon which the archer fixed his reference.

Like a prayer, the word left his lips.

"_Uukhai."_


	15. Chapter 15: A City Without Suns

**Chapter 15: A City Without Suns**

* * *

**Then**

They sat, each facing the other.

One, a svelte figure clad in brilliant blue, trailing a train of delicate gossamer that danced in the light wind that blew across the valley.

The other, naked except for a cloak of moss interwoven with oak leaves. Short, stout, and grey with age, his stubby feet barely reaching the ground.

Staring at each other. Opponents across a chessboard. Estranged family across a table of reconciliation. One the accuser, one the defendant.

Elsa spoke first.

"I spent a long time," she began, "thinking about what I was going to say to you."

Her fingers clawed, raking across the fabric draped over her thigh.

"I've been angry for weeks. Thinking about what you did to her, to _us_. I tried journaling my thoughts, at least up until I tore the first page with the tip of the pen. I've paced the castle halls so many times that I probably wore out the carpets. I've lost so much sleep."

Her braid fell across her shoulder, brushing her cheek. "I always pretend to be asleep. Just lie there wide awake, with my eyes shut and my body completely still. And yet _she _knows anyways. She comes into the room and doesn't even say a word. Just creeps in next to me, puts my head against her shoulder, and she sings. Sings me to sleep, because she _knows _I'm pretending. Knows I'm hurting inside."

"Do you get that?" Elsa's eyes were watering, in spite of herself. "She's been there, comforting me. She's suffered so much, her childhood's been taken away, there's gaps in her mind where memories should be, she's hurt and been alone when she shouldn't have been—and she's. _Comforting. _Me."

The glare she turned upon the old troll was withering.

"I want to scream at you. To shout, to storm, to rage at you. Damn it—there've been times these past few weeks, thinking about things, when _I wanted you dead_. But it's for her, for _Anna_, that I come here today, so we can finally put the past in the past where it belongs."

Upon her thigh, a cluster of moisture gathers, darkening the icy fabric. Dripping, like dew, from her damp cheeks.

"So tell me, Grand Pabbie. _Why did you do it_? Why did you erase my sister's memories?"

Around, the wind continued to whisper, pulling tendrils of white mist like taffy across the floor of the valley. Neither shivered in the chill. One was of rock and earth, hardy and unyielding; one was of the wind and sky, never bothered by the cold.

Then the air moved, ever so slightly, as Grand Pabbie inhaled slowly.

"I won't insult you, Queen Elsa. I won't tell you that I understand what you both have gone through—what you're going through still. And I won't disgrace you with lies."

He looked down, at his hands. A craftsman's hands, in the end. While humans labored over gems, or steel, his art was in the shaping of memory.

_The heart is not so easily changed, but the head can be persuaded…_

_I recommend we remove all magic, even memories of magic to be safe…_

"What was done that day—it was done to save your sister. That much is true." Grand Pabbie looked back up, at the Snow Queen. "I had to remove all memory of the truth of your magic. To do it—was difficult. I had to look at her most treasured memories, her happiest times with you, the joy of childhood—and here I was, standing over it all with a scalpel."

"Don't—!" Elsa bared her teeth; then, lips pulled back down, her face became as ice once again. "Just tell me."

"Your magic is powerful. It _was_, even back then when you were a young girl. I felt it when I touched Anna's mind, and it was like handling liquid fire with my bare hands. No," he corrected himself, "not fire. Ice—deepest, coldest ice, ancient and absolute."

"It would have destroyed your sister's mind, Queen Elsa. Just like ice spreads across a field, choking out saplings, turning the soil hard and inhospitable." Grand Pabbie paused, inhaling sharply.

Elsa's eyes widened. And slowly, they turned downwards as they had so many times before.

At her hands. Pale, smooth, slender hands. Treacherous hands. _Dangerous _hands.

"No—no, Queen Elsa." Grand Pabbie had reached out a rocky, stubby hand. "Don't blame yourself. You are not a monster. You had no idea what you could do. What happened—it was not your fault. I know nothing about the source of your power, but I do know this."

"My magic is dangerous." Elsa forced her hands down, back upon her thighs. A trickle snaked its way down her cheek; she stared at the troll, as if daring him to challenge her.

"Of course it is."

Elsa blinked, her lips parting in a gasp.

"Of course it's _dangerous_, Elsa." His voice had dropped. "Your magic is dangerous. Just like fire is dangerous—it gives life and warmth to homes, it destroys a forest yet paves the way for new life. Just like water is dangerous—the same water that brings life to crops and fish to the fishermen, also swallows ships in the storm."

He had realized his mistake a second too late. Had seen the flinch of palpable pain, had seen the curl of her lip, and cursed himself for a fool.

"You're not—your magic is as natural as the North Wind, or the _aurora _across the sky. A part of nature—fierce nature, terrible nature, gentle nature, _beautiful_ nature. Worthy of respect—but never fear."

"And my father? My mother?" Elsa's anger remained, simmering below the surface. But the tears flowed freely now. "They—they knew about what you were going to do to Anna?"

"Your father knew about me, yes." Grand Pabbie sighed. "But only from old tales and forgotten maps drawn by sages long dead. He had no idea about my power to alter memory. He had never seen it done before."

His hands folded together, as if in prayer. "I believe he brought you and Anna to me simply out of desperation, to save your sister's life. And so I did what I had to."

"Closing the gates of your kingdom, hiding your powers away—your father was trying to protect you. From a power he barely understood, one that he thought had come _this _close to killing his younger daughter." Grand Pabbie closed his eyes. "And I—I am to blame for his fear."

"What do you mean?"

"I never asked him to hide you away—but when he suggested it, I did not oppose it either. I feared—" the old troll swallowed, "I feared that despite my best efforts, some small remnant of magic had still lingered in Anna's mind. I was afraid that at the slightest trigger of her memories, the hint of the truth of your powers—it would flare to life, and the curse would take hold again. Everything I'd done, everything I'd already taken away, wasted. Pointless."

Elsa stared, silent. Tears streaming down. Hands trembling.

"I told you, long ago, that fear would be your enemy." Grand Pabbie bowed his head. "I wish I had taken my own words to heart. Fought against _my _own fear."

"My father—"

"_Hate me_, child." Grand Pabbie stood from his seat. "Hate me with all your heart. Hate me and curse me with every fiber of your being, for what I've done. Give me all the hatred you have in your heart—but Elsa, _leave none for your father_."

The troll king stepped closer. "For what it's worth, what little weight it bears—I'm sorry, Elsa. Sorry for everything."

The icy dress shimmered, as the Snow Queen rose to her feet. With the back of her hand, she brushed at her cheeks, before glaring down at Grand Pabbie.

"I forgive you. Not for me, Grand Pabbie. And not for you. But I do it for _her_." She bit her lip. "I'm doing this because Anna would want me to move forward. To look at tomorrow, and not yesterday."

A dainty flick of her head, and her braid tumbled off her shoulder. "I'm going home, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life giving my sister the care and love she deserves. _And I never, ever want to see you again_."

She stepped away, without a backward glance. Past the boundary stones, down the old stone steps—and then, she was gone.

Grand Pabbie breathed out, the mist curling upwards from his lips. It was only when he looked down that he realized his old habit had flared to life.

His thumb was flicking. Brushing at the side of his index finger, rhythmic and uncontrollable.

An old habit. A _tell_, rather. A spasm that had hounded him since his first days, learning of the art of troll-magic at the feet of masters who had now gone under the earth. An impulse which would be silent even in times of greatest rage, or fear, or grief, but would surface—

Only when he lied.

He stared down. Down at the treacherous thumb, flicking its merry way upon his hand.

And hoped that Queen Elsa had been too preoccupied with hating his face to notice his hand.

"_Your father had no idea about my power to alter memory. He had never seen it done before._"

Flick.

"_I know nothing about the source of your power._"

Flick.

"_Your magic is worthy of respect—but never fear_."

Flick.

"_You are not a monster."_

* * *

**Now**

A burst of azure illuminated the Valley of Living Rock like the flash of a thunderbolt.

And then out of the blaze of fire stumbled Grand Pabbie. His rotund body worn and chipped, the moss upon his back charred and smoking. He stumbled, his foot slipping on the ground, and collapsed forward.

The trolls rushed forward. Rolled, rather, with a gathered chorus of alarm.

"_Grand Pabbie!_"

"He's hurt!"

"Where's he been?"

"Somebody fetch Bulda!"

"Where are the herbs?"

"Let's help him up!"

And then—

"_Get back!"_

The voice was thunder. Forceful, terrible, rife with purpose. Gone now was the kindly tone of the guiding chief or the soft low rumble of an old, wise troll.

The trolls stopped in their tracks, as if frozen to the spot.

Grand Pabbie stood to his feet. And then, thrust his hand forward in a single violent motion.

"_Nakk Ravast Ahuur!_"

A gust of wind tore across the ground, nearly sweeping some of the trolls aside. Cries of panic spread through the gathered crowd. Fearful eyes watched as the sacred markings of their great magic circle were stripped away—leaving nothing but bare stone.

"Cliff! Gothi! Soren!" the troll chieftain called out. "_Tear down the stones!"_

Grand Pabbie rushed to a corner of what had once been their most sacred place, the center of their magic. Gripped the sides of a stone of power, erected in a time beyond memory; a sacred relic more precious than gold or silver.

The horrified trolls watched as their chieftain pushed the tall stone off its plinth, and the ancient monument shattered.

His thundering command came again. "_Now!"_

Only a moment's hesitation. Then, obedience.

Young trolls joined hands with old ones, pulling at the large stones, toppling them one by one. Not understanding, shocked beyond words, yet obeying dutifully. Many had tears in their eyes. A few were weeping openly.

Only when their most sacred place had been completely desecrated, did Grand Pabbie exhale loudly.

"Hope that was enough—without the magic circle, it can't—can't follow me here—"

He staggered backwards, leaning against the remnants of a toppled stone, breathing heavily.

"Pabbie—" Bulda's voice was a trembling whisper. The kindly troll clasped her hands together, trying to stop them from shaking. "Pabbie, what's happening? What—what's the meaning of this?"

The troll strode forward, almost hesitating to approach her chief and mentor. Only when she was within an arm's reach of him did she stretch her hand.

"Bulda." Grand Pabbie gripped her outstretched hand. "Gather everyone. Move to the hidden place within the valley. Stay there. _Whatever happens, stay there. _Do not leave until I come back."

"Why? _Why, _Grand Pabbie?" Bulda's lip quivered. "You're—you're scaring everyone."

"Something is coming. I can only hope it cannot follow me _here_—but it is coming for me. You must hide. Hide, and pray."

The old troll raised his hand. A smooth stone ball peeped from between his fingers, clutched so tightly that his knuckles were pale. Strange and unfamiliar symbols lit up along its surface—or was it a trick of the light?

"Pabbie—what is _that_?"

The old troll closed his eyes. "Something terrible—that has come at too great a price for me to bear. I cannot—I _must not_—"

His eyes flew open again, brimming with purpose. "I am running out of time. _It _will find me soon. But the threat is now greater than I could have imagined."

He reached down for his walking stick. Gripped it tightly, knees knocking together.

"I must find Elsa. Or Arendelle—_Arendelle is lost_."

* * *

**Three hours ago, in the Valley of Living Rock**

Grand Pabbie held the crystal aloft, its glow pulsing with the beat of his own inner magic. Around him, the stones of power began to light up, intangible silvery light illuminating the ancient runes.

_Bergakungen. Story-keeper. Librarian King. Nahur-kul._

With each unspoken word, the crystal flashed; a conduit for the path between his mind and that of the only being who guarded the _Leyden_. The King-Below, one who was his own kin in rock and earth.

_Hear me, and grant me passage through the Leyden, that I may travel through rock and stone to emerge safe and whole._

It had been eighty years since he had communed with the King-Below, and crystals had a tendency to wane in their power without the regular flow of magic. Pabbie strained his senses, listening for a reply.

Step into the _Leyden _under the blessing of the Nahur-kul, and one could traverse miles in an instant, even across oceans or unpassable mountains. But enter into it unbidden—Grand Pabbie would find himself trapped within the belly of the earth surrounded by solid rock.

And not even a troll, almost rock-like himself, wanted to be _that _close to the earth.

Then, faint at first, then rising with each returning pulse of magic through the crystal in his palm, Grand Pabbie heard—_felt—_the reply.

_I hear you, old friend. Enter, and be welcome in my domain._

The troll king released the breath he had been holding. The incantations came easily to him, as did the signs and sigils he cast into the air.

The crystal blazed with a blue glow. Around, the runes flashed brilliantly with blinding intensity—and then as one, were extinguished.

The troll king was gone, and only the softest whisper of magic, and the faintest sliver of light, remained to illuminate the carven circle.

* * *

His eyes opened. Only when his eyes had adjusted to the near-dark—and he was sure that he was not buried alive within the earth—did he dare to take a breath.

His inner compass, his connection to the natural magnetism, confirmed it. He had been transported more than five miles—instantly—underground, into the realm of the Hidden Ones.

If stone had a smell, the air was full of it; metallic and acerbic scents borne up from deep aquifers into the vast stolid rivers that traversed the great underground. Here and there the odor of arsenic, or mercury, flowing through the air and clinging to walls; death to humankind, death to all living creatures except those whose very bodies were one with the earth—the _trollkin _and the Huldrefolk.

He felt him before he heard him, sensed his magic before smelling his scent.

No time to waste, no need for caution or hesitation. Grand Pabbie turned around, and knelt in one fluid motion.

"Librarian King. Nahur-kul. King-Below. Ruler of the Hidden Ones." The troll extended an open palm upwards in supplication. "I thank you for welcoming me into your domain and granting my safe passage."

Then, a smooth hand, cold as ice, grasped his palm firmly.

"Come now, old friend. It has only been eighty four years." The voice echoed in the cavern. Like water flowing over the hollows of river rock, each syllable a musical note. "Surely there is no need for formalities."

The Librarian King, the ruler of the Hidden Ones, pulled the troll king to his feet. Standing tall like a statue, an ornate cloak hanging from his shoulders, he was clad in a grey skin of smooth rock that appeared tough as iron.

Yet he moved with a fluidity that defied natural law; the rock did not grind with the bending of his joints, no seams or corrugations erupted when his skin stretched. Stone itself behaved as liquid on his flesh. A mane of black hair adorned his face—smooth, mask-like, yet shifting and reforming with each eye-blink—and upon his head was a simple crown of carven jade.

"There is much I must speak to you about, Nahur-kul," Grand Pabbie began, "but I will tell you of the most pressing matters. Ahtohallan has awoken once more. The Spirits are free, and the Great Mist has lifted from the forest."

The Librarian King's carven eyebrows raised high, rock sliding on rock without blemish. "That must have been the change that I sensed, so many months ago. So you now have a Fifth Spirit again, at last."

"Indeed. A daughter of Agnarr, and a scion of Aren himself." Grand Pabbie nodded. "She was born with magic, Nahur-kul; the power to control ice and snow. Now she takes her place as the Fifth Spirit, and guides the Northuldra towards their place among the Spirits."

"And the cycle begins anew." The Librarian King waved his hand; on the near wall, a torch flared to life. "The wheel has been still for so long; it turns once more. But you have not come simply to be a bearer of news, Troll King."

He turned his eyes on Grand Pabbie. Two eyes—one black, one silvery grey. "You have come with a question, and seek the answer in my Library."

Grand Pabbie bowed his head. "Indeed, I do. And I will tell you simply."

The ancient troll lifted his hand. Like the glow of fireflies, the pockets of yellow light coalesced at his fingertips. "I have been plagued with dreams, since the Mist lifted. Dark dreams. Of things that have come to pass—and things that I pray would never come."

"Nahur-kul, I ask of this in sincerity and good faith." Grand Pabbie clasped his craggy hands together. "_Which of the four deities betrayed the others?_"

The question reverberated in the cavern like the peal of thunder. Ringing against the rock, echoing against the pillars as if the earth itself were repeating it with a thousand treacherous voices.

The Librarian King's face was hidden; the glare of torchlight obscured his features beneath a veil of fire. When he did speak again, it was with a voice of iron.

"Troll King, it is only the goodwill between the _trollkin_ and the Hidden Ones that prevents the earth from swallowing you up, for even daring to utter that question."

The Hulder King stood still as a statue. "Mortals have been struck down, for seeking the answer to that question. Even we who are born from magic, we are subject to greater powers still. What _madness _has driven you to ask _this_, of me?"

Grand Pabbie bowed lower. "It is not madness, Nahur-kul. It is love, and the fear in my heart that all we love could soon be lost. I would not—not in a thousand years and a thousand more—seek to intrude into the secrets you keep. I am a keeper of secrets myself; some of my secrets would destroy lives were they to come to light."

He inhaled deeply, before continuing. "But this one secret could hold the key. And I fear that without this knowledge—all will be lost. Arendelle, the forest, the fields, the Northuldra, the land above and below. All will be destroyed. Nahur-kul, _I must know_. If not for my sake—then, for the sake of a secret traded."

The old troll raised the crystal in his hand, up to the face of the Librarian King. The orange glow of the torchlight, captured within the walls of polished crystal, made it seem as a beacon of fire between his fingers.

"In my hand," Grand Pabbie whispered, "is a memory taken from King Agnarr, son of Runeard, of the line of Aren. It was entrusted to me by the king himself, and bears a secret that would destroy all of Arendelle should it be revealed."

"Into your hand, and your care," said Grand Pabbie, placing the crystal gently into the Librarian King's palm, "do I yield this secret, Nahur-kul. In return—I ask you grant me what I seek."

The Librarian King closed his hand over the crystal, as he brought it up to his eyes. Turning it over, inspecting its every facet. And then at last, his eyes closed.

The magic flared; the crystal blazed.

When the black eyes opened again, they were wide with surprise.

"Troll king," the Hulder King murmured, "this memory contains a great evil. It reeks of darkness." He drew a deep, shuddering breath. "It was not yours to give away."

"Agnarr of Arendelle has passed from this world. His daughters know nothing of what you have just seen. I alone have held the secret, and now—" Grand Pabbie gestured to the crystal "—now, so do you."

"A secret for a secret, Nahur-kul." Grand Pabbie raised both palms, facing up. "A covenant of stone, made unto stone. As it has been written, so long ago. _Water has memory—_"

"—_and stone keeps its secrets._" The Librarian King finished.

The crystal turned in his hand. And then—vanished, beneath his cloak.

"Very well, old friend. I feel the weight of the secret you have entrusted to me. Against my better judgement—and at my own peril—I will grant the answer to what you seek."

He waved his hand towards the far end of the cavern. His magic trilled—instantaneously, a constellation of torches burst into light along the wall, illuminating a path that led further and deeper beyond.

"Walk with me, troll king."

They walked along the perilous trail, through liquid darkness on both sides. Grand Pabbie struggled to match the pace of the Librarian King, whose feet seemed to melt into the stone as they landed on the cold floor, only to reform like liquid when they lifted. It was a reminder—not that the old troll needed it—that this was the domain of the Huldrefolk, and they were as much a part of the vast underground as were the pillars of limestone or rivers of liquid metal.

"There is something that mortals do not know. The four deities do not, in fact, appear as they are depicted. Their images are not so much visualizations of their form, rather aspects of their spirit."

The Hulder King lifted a finger, and the lights behind them began to die one by one. "Skadi is not truly a woman clad in ice, nor is Ruohtta really a moose with the torso of a hanged man riding upon the air. When mortals think of Ahuur, they think of 'serpent' as if he is like one of their petty snakes crawling beneath their houses. And Yarron, to whom we Huldrefolk belong, only appears in human art as a solid ball of stone because his true form would drive mortal minds to madness."

Grand Pabbie nodded; he knew these things already. He touched the amulet on his chest—the sign of Ahuur, the great serpent upon whose body all of existence rests. The reverence of the Old Ones was a fading whimper in the changing world; even among trolls, the traditions lingered only in sayings and habits whose origins had long been forgotten. _It's just the way things are, _as the trolls would say. Bulda would scribble a squiggle on the doorway of her home, _for good luck_, unaware that she was invoking the ancient sigil of the blessed serpent.

The Hulder King was speaking again.

"These are crude images, the product of mortal minds grappling with the unknowable. And in the same way, when mortals think of _betrayal_, they think in their earthbound ways. They think of husbands cheating on their wives, or friends stabbing one another in their backs."

The Librarian King's brow creased in disdain. "The truth is that when the gods betray, _nature _itself tears at the seams. Imagine if one morning, gravity failed you. Or darkness flowed from the sun instead of light. _That _is what betrayal is for the cosmic Old Ones. And in the history of our land, such a betrayal has happened only once—and it very nearly ended our world."

"For that answer," the Hulder King continued, "we must journey deep into my domain. To the heart, where my people reside."

And then they rounded the corner, and Grand Pabbie's eyes lit up.

The thrill of wonder blazed down his spine like molten gold, absorbing the sheer spectacle of a sight that had not greeted him for eighty-four years.

A vast underground metropolis, sprawling and exploding with life and light. Great orbs, each larger than a mansion, hung from the roof of the towering cavern, suspended freely in the air and radiating warm yellow light like miniature suns. Underneath, towers, walkways, great earthen complexes and an array of houses seemed to rise from the limestone. It was as if the city had been chiseled in its entirety from a single titanic piece of rock.

Here and there, impossible shapes and designs drew the eye; bridges that stretched out without visible means of support, stairways and towers that crossed the air as if they were made of paper. Even from a distance, with his enhanced sight, Grand Pabbie could just about make out the threads of pure magical energy that crisscrossed the landscape, pushing or pulling with the most precise quantity of force. A city held in place by magnetism and earth magic; a testament to the Huldrefolk's absolute command over the underground world.

"Welcome, Troll King," the Librarian King spread his hands, "to Hulderheim. Or rather, welcome _back_."

* * *

An hour later, Grand Pabbie had to admit to himself that he was not half the troll he used to be.

The path had not been difficult at all. Far from it; the incline was gentle and the stairways were comfortable—once again, Hulder art worked its magic, as the stone steps bent and shrunk to accommodate the troll's stubbier legs and shorter strides. Rather, it had been the sheer _distance _which had worn away at Grand Pabbie's stamina. His legs were beginning to shake, and he regretted leaving his trusty walking stick on the surface.

His relatively slow pace allowed him to take in the sights, however. It was here that he marveled again at the variety of the Huldrefolk's physical forms; those at the outskirts of the city could perhaps pass for human, with warm pink flesh and black silken hair, were it not for their bushy animal-like tails.

However, it seemed that the further he went into the city, the more stone-like and lithoid their appearances became. By now, many of the Huldrefolk he had spied from their stone windows were covered with barnacle-like scales or mosaics of stone and marble. Some of their limbs were even wholly hewn from stone, although they joined seamlessly to bodies of flesh.

At times, he could even see some smidgen of resemblance to the Earth Giants that roamed the plains of the Enchanted Forest. Cousins, or perhaps extant descendants of some common progenitor race?

He looked ahead at the Librarian King, whose pace was unmerciful. Perhaps the form of a living statue, wholly cut from stone, represented the pinnacle of the Hulder race, and the eventual fate of their evolution. Fragile and fickle flesh, giving way to impenetrable and eternal stone.

At long last, just as he felt his knees about to give way, it loomed before them.

"The Library of Yarron." Grand Pabbie leaned against a wall to his left, breathing deeply. "We're here."

"Indeed we are," the Librarian King said.

The stone dome was large enough to swallow Arendelle castle whole. Smooth and unblemished, hewn and shaped from a single piece. It lay in the very middle of Hulderheim, ringed and framed by the houses and corridors of the most learned of the Huldrefolk.

To the visible eye it was a dome; in reality, Grand Pabbie knew it was a _sphere_, with half its bulk buried beneath the earth. For it had been shaped in the image of the great deity Yarron himself, the lord of secrets, he who was both gate and gatekeeper to infinite knowledge.

It was from Ahtohallan that memories flowed from the distant past into the future, borne by the current of the great river that transcended time and existence. But it was here in the Library of Yarron that memory was _imprisoned_.

The Librarian King strode towards the entrance, making friendly gestures to the guards. At each side, fierce-looking Hulder warriors stood with spears of obsidian and robes of moss and twine. They were more rock than flesh; they needed no armor, their shoulders and chests were covered with layers of rock and unrefined metal that seemed to grow from what was left of their skin.

As Grand Pabbie walked by, hurrying after the Librarian King, one of the guards bestowed upon him a smile of respect. The smile barely pushed aside the cheeks, and died before ever reaching the eyes. As for the guard's grip on his spear—it tightened, ever so slightly.

Respected, venerable, and one of the old races—Grand Pabbie was still an outsider.

He walked faster. As fast as his aching knees could carry him.

* * *

"I thank you for this gift, old friend." The Hulder King held the yellow crystal in his palm, gently, reverently. In the darkness inside the dome, it sparkled like the light of a glowworm. "But such a crystal holds memory for only fifty, perhaps a hundred years. To survive in the library, this memory will need to be held in something more—durable."

Lanky fingers plucked at the air. In an instant, from the great impenetrable darkness that filled the inside of the dome, a stone sphere descended into the Librarian King's grasp. Carved as a miniature replica of the dome itself, and marked with the quadruple eyes which were a symbol of Yarron.

"_Yarron is the gatekeeper, Yarron is the gate…_" the tall Hulder chanted, his voice sonorous and low, "_the all-seeing sphere of many eyes, dwelling among knowledge and madness…_"

Grand Pabbie raised his eyes heavenward. Just beyond the limits of his vision, at the fringes of darkness, he could make out the shapes of thousands upon thousands of stone spheres suspended in the air, forming a lattice of stone that stretched across the inside of the dome.

The old troll felt a pang of humility—_or was it envy?_ For all the wondrous stories among humankind about troll magic, he was reminded again of the great chasm between the paltry crystalline magic of troll-kind and the indomitable mastery of memory magic among the Huldrefolk. Comparing his own yellow crystals to any one of those stone spheres would be to compare a crude clay tablet to an illuminated manuscript.

"_Ch'lwh tur khhun Nahur-kul ghar Yarron_—" The ancient tongue, said to be the language of the Old Ones themselves, rolled effortlessly off the tongue of the Librarian King. "_Ghar kinreh rivast cholen esteraast—" _Alien, ancient, the syllables struck Grand Pabbie's ears like drumbeats; he shivered.

Carefully, the ancient Hulder brought Grand Pabbie's crystal to the surface of the stone ball. The smooth stone surface made contact with a polished facet, and then—the crystal simply vanished. The sphere now glowed a warm yellow that shone through each of its carven eyes.

"Now it is done. The secret you have given me is now imprisoned." The Librarian King turned the sphere over in his palm.

"And what I seek?" Grand Pabbie ventured. "The answer I have come for?"

The Hulder King's face contorted in displeasure, nostrils flaring. His lips were stretched thin, his eyes cold. His left eye, silver-grey, seemed to turn darker. "It is not a secret I yield easily. And retrieving it—it will not be the same, as plucking a memory from the Library. It will involve _pain_. And I would prefer not to sully this day of our reunion with such pain."

His lips spread in an attempt at a smile. "Let us feast tonight, at least, and have wine. Let us rest. Tomorrow I will give you the answer you seek."

"I am grateful for your hospitality, Nahur-kul." Grand Pabbie bowed, keeping his voice level. "Nevertheless, I _am _short of time. I most humbly request that—"

"_Great King_!"

Grand Pabbie couldn't stop himself from flinching. Even at a dead run, the Hulder's footfalls had been almost completely silent.

"My king, I'm sorry for interrupting your meeting—but there is a problem." The guard's voice was discordant, strange to the ear; while his voice was clear, every syllable sounded as if it had been chopped from a different voice and reassembled into a solid melody. Grand Pabbie knew that the Huldrefolk would steal the voices of humans to use for themselves; briefly, he wondered if he was hearing small pieces of the voices of someone long dead.

"A problem?" The Librarian King turned, the sphere vanishing into his cloak.

"I have no idea how he managed to find us, or enter the city, or get past our defenses—but we have him, and he is unarmed—"

The guard's expression was incredulous. "My king—it's a **_human_**."

* * *

One thing was for sure, thought Grand Pabbie. The Huldrefolk were not known for half-measures.

"Secure the prisoner!" A Hulder guard cried, and in an instant every spear was pointed at what looked like the most pathetic and frightened figure he had ever seen.

The human was bound in chains, wrapped around his torso. His hands were restrained with manacles carved from stone. He had been blindfolded with what looked like an entire pound of thick cloth wrapped around his head, likely by some overzealous guard. Grand Pabbie wasn't sure if the man had been forced to kneel, or if the sheer weight of his restraints simply dragged him to the floor. The coarse tunic was torn—the capture had not been gentle.

The man looked thin, though not overly so. Grey hair peeked out from under the bandage, and wrinkles marred the unobscured portion of his face. A small pool of moisture gathered underneath his damp trousers. His manacles beat a steady staccato rattle against the stone floor, as he shivered uncontrollably.

"A human—here, in Hulderheim?" The Librarian King stepped towards the prisoner. "Where did you find him?"

"Outside the city, my liege. He offered no fight. Seemed scared out of his wits." The guard captain gripped his spear, the head leveled at the prisoner's throat. "What shall we do with him?"

"Take, take, take!" a Hulder growled.

"Another human scum, a miner!" his companion joined in, jabbing his spear at the hapless human. "Here to take what's ours! Like _all _of their race!"

"Cut his throat!"

"Throw him off the edge!"

"Crush him in the quarry!"

"Turn him to _stone_!"

"Oh, _for Ahuur's sake_!" Grand Pabbie stomped his foot, yelling over the din. "Can't you see he poses no threat? He's frightened and unarmed! Why not hear what he has to say?"

"These humans are dangerous to us. They keep digging deeper and deeper, and their mines reach closer and closer to our city. This was going to happen eventually." The guard captain's spear was almost at the man's neck. "We _cannot _allow him to leave."

"Nahur-kul, please." Grand Pabbie turned to the Librarian King. "There has to be another way."

The tall Hulder King stared at the kneeling miner. Then, he spoke. "Remove his blindfold."

A nearby guard removed the blindfold in a violent motion, nearly tearing it from the prisoner's head. The man was clearly not from Arendelle. There was something in the angle of his eyes, the high nose-bridge and tanned leather-like skin that suggested a life in warmer climates under drier skies. A short beard, perforated with white bristles, lined his chin to the angle of the jaw.

The prisoner stared at the Hulder King, eyelids peeled back and pupils vibrating like flies within the whites of his eyes. Lips trembled uncontrollably; his neck jerked from side to side spasmodically.

"Who are you?" The Librarian King stepped closer. With the light of the floating stone spheres directly behind him, the Hulder ruler cast a shadow that utterly enveloped the witless human. "And how did you find us?"

The man blinked twice, as if not daring to believe that the carven statue-like figure before him was capable of motion, let alone speech. Then he swallowed.

"I—I am a—a miner. One of those—from the surface. I—I was lost in the tunnels, been lost for days—and then I suddenly came out here, I don't know how—" his words tumbled forth in choppy staccato fragments, in between shallow breaths. Grand Pabbie could detect the traces of an accent, though he was not well-versed enough in human tongues to place it.

His eyes jumped from one figure in the crowd to the next, meeting the hostile and merciless faces of the Hulder guards.

"I knew it." The guard captain's teeth bared in a snarl. "The humans have finally dug too deep. Their tunnels reach to Hulderheim itself!"

"You are a miner, you say?" The Librarian King's eyes surveyed his body. "And yet you carry no tools. No supplies, no food."

"L—lost them all, in the tunnels—days ago. Please—I haven't eaten in days—let me go—"

"Where are you from, my friend?" Grand Pabbie stepped forward, his tone softer. The prisoner flinched back at the sight of another strange creature. "I mean, which land do you hail from? You are not Arendellian."

"I am—I am from a place called Dzungar. The steppes, west of China." The prisoner seemed to have collected his wits.

"He is not even from these lands." The guard captain adjusted his grip on his spear. "Bad enough that the people of Aren wear out the soil above with their diggings—now we have _foreigners _intruding into our city."

The Librarian King bent lower, craning over the prisoner. A hand of stone gripped the man's cheeks—the hapless miner jerked in surprise, but there was nowhere to run from the Hulder's cruel eyes as he turned the man's face from side to side.

"You humans build your cities above, again and again. Uselessly raising your bricks and your walls, only to have them fall again and again. Through the years, you build up towers of dust only to have them fall back into dust." The Librarian King's disdain dripped like venom from his lips. "I tolerated your desecration of the land above. I will not tolerate it here below."

"I have seen men with your likeness before." His voice was low, almost a growl. "Thirty, perhaps forty years ago, when more of your kind dared to tunnel into the earth in search of gold, or silver, or precious stones. And these humans—your people—are here still."

The Hulder King turned, to the side, at a cluster of pillars that stood near the Library of Yarron. Grand Pabbie's gaze followed—and a chill ran down his back like freezing spring water.

The pillars—were not pillars at all. From the chipped stone peeked protrusions of grey—a hand here, a foot there. A forehead. An eye, frozen forever in widened terror. Half a face.

Humans. Petrified in death. Embalmed in stone.

_The justice of the Huldrefolk is merciless and strange._

"Perhaps you should join them." The Librarian King released his grip. "Then, like them, you may stay forever and enjoy the glory of Hulderheim."

"Nahur-kul, _enough_!" He had to put a stop to this. The troll was not one quick to anger—but he knew when he had to assert his own force of spirit. "This _man _is tired, hungry, and frightened! Now you threaten him with such a horrifying death! Is this your justice?"

He turned an accusing glare around at the guards. "You are Huldrefolk, not beasts! Do you know what stories they tell, up on the surface, about the monsters who live underground? Do you seek to prove them true?"

"You are a _guest_ here, Troll King." The Hulder King's tone was ice. "I do not grant a _guest _the privilege of questioning the justice that I dispense in _my _realm. Particularly a guest who has come to request something of me."

The troll closed his eyes, inhaling as he bit back a retort. "Nahur-kul—you are lord over Hulderheim, and I do not question that. Still—there is another way. If you will listen."

Grand Pabbie raised his hands. "You have magic capable of imprisoning memory—but my magic, it is capable of _altering _memory. Allow me to work on this man's mind, Nahur-kul. I will remove all traces of him ever being here."

The troll's hands glowed briefly with an orange light. "He will not remember Hulderheim; he will not recall how he came to these lands, or what path he took through the tunnels. He will be asleep—simply place him somewhere close to the surface, and when he awakens his only thought will be to return to Arendelle in search of food and drink. By the time the next day dawns—he will never remember having been near the mines at all."

"I can do this, Nahur-kul." Grand Pabbie clasped his hands together. "With your permission, Lord of the Hulder."

The Librarian King said nothing at first. And then, stepping back from the prisoner, fixed Grand Pabbie with a glare.

"And then what, Troll King? Are we to carry this man to the surface, as if lugging a sack of coal?" He cast a look of derision at the prisoner. "Or will _you_, dragging him along the tunnels?"

"The _Leyden_, Nahur-kul." Grand Pabbie kept his voice calm. "Use your power, and your connection with the ley-lines of the earth. Just as you brought me here—send him back."

"What—what are you talking about? Send—send me _where_?" the man gibbered.

The troll fixed his gaze on the Hulder King, hands still clasped together. "This is the way, Nahur-kul. _Please_."

Grand Pabbie glanced sideways at the human. "You will be sent to the surface in an instant—through magic. I will make sure that you forget everything you have seen here. You will be unharmed—I promise."

"I have made no such promise." The Librarian King stood at full height.

"Please—Nahur-kul, it is the right way. We are better than this. We _must _be."

The guards around cast murderous looks at Grand Pabbie, and yet he ignored them. His gaze never wavered from the steely look on the Hulder's face. The knot in his belly loosened at last when the Librarian King relaxed his brow.

"Very well, friend. On our friendship, if nothing else, _I agree_."

He turned to the human. "I will send you to the surface, with the _Leyden_. But not before the Troll King alters your memory. If I were you, I would be prostrating myself before him in thanks. And you should pray that I do not change my mind—and send you into the middle of a mountain instead. Perhaps your skill as a miner would help you dig your way out of _that_."

"You—you can do that?" the man whispered. "You have the power to transport someone anywhere in the land, instantly? You have command over the magic of the earth?"

"I am the Nahur-kul, human. The King-Below. Space and time within the underground are mine to command." The Librarian King pointed a stony finger at the man. "I have the power—_and I alone_."

"**Then that is all I need to know."**

* * *

It had been the venom in the prisoner's voice, which Grand Pabbie would remember so long as he lived.

Like mist on a mirror, like dewdrops in the summer heat. In an instant, the façade vanished; in a mere eye-blink, the deception unfurled itself. The wide eyes narrowed into hawk-like points, the trembling lips became still. What had been an expression of abject terror was now—utter, chilling calm.

The sound rang out like thunder.

The stone manacles, each one heavier than a millstone, thicker than the length of a finger—gone. Shards of stone lay upon the ground, pulverized with great violence, lying amidst a scattered pile of grey dust.

The prisoner's hands were free.

Everything—everyone—seemed petrified in time. The world seemed to be filled with a viscous invisible mist, slowing down limbs, dragging thoughts to a dead crawl. The nearby Hulder had not moved at all; only their eyes, widening slowly, reacting slowly. Too slowly.

The guard captain was opening his mouth. Inhaling, gathering his breath for a shouted command that would bring the wrath of the Hulder warriors upon the prisoner, as he lunged with the spear.

Pabbie never saw the kneeling man move.

Only blinked, reeling, still disbelieving, still in _shock, _as he looked at the Hulder captain's face, ashen and drained of blood. Falling from limp fingers, the spear clattered to the ground.

The wound gaped at his neck, grotesque and ringed by lips of traumatised flesh, disgorging thick blue blood over his chest like a coat of paint. Like dying worms, the Hulder's fingers scrabbled weakly at the short black blade that had buried itself deep into his neck. A savage curved blade, like the long talon of a predator of the night, gripped in fingers of iron.

All traces of weakness, of fear, vanished from the frame of the prisoner—no, the _thing—_standing over the Hulder. The blade slipped out, smoothly and noiselessly. Then the captain collapsed forward.

And Grand Pabbie realized the enormity of his mistake.

"Kill him," a Hulder shouted, somewhere, "_kill him!_"

The stranger's free hand rose in the air. Snaking up his wrist, tendrils of black sand curled and entangled themselves around each other—and then, suddenly aligning along a single axis, formed into the shape of a second blade.

The man spoke only a single word. In the rising shriek of panic and confusion, amidst the thunder of Grand Pabbie's own heartbeat in his old ears, it went unheard and unheeded. Not that it would have mattered, for the word was spoken in the language of a people far, far from the Northern lands.

"_Khuyag,_" he spoke. And across his back, and his shoulders, the ancient signs carved into his flesh blazed to life with a fiery crimson.

_Armor._

* * *

He had been a man, once.

His old self existed as a cacophony of maddening whispers and flashing sights, none tangible enough to form a proper memory. He knew he was hundreds, maybe thousands of years old. For one with no need for food, or comfort, or sleep—nothing remained to tether himself to that frail base of his own humanity.

When he had withdrawn his armor, shed the flesh of Gurun Khan and exposed his human form once more for the sake of the deception, it had felt foreign. Rotting. Weak. Like a cloak soaked with excrement and mildew. He had only been mildly surprised to find that he had aged, after all, beneath the armor. The covenant of the _Elsen Shuurga_ extended life, but there was no stopping the hourglass from running.

Now the deception was over.

And as he shed the falsehood, the _human _form, the armor that layered itself over his flesh felt solid and true, like the warmth of purifying water. Rolling over his body like a wave, expelling the fickle and unsteady notions of mortal men with their lives and cares forever at the mercy of the gods. Leaving only the truth of the promise.

_I am the Dagger._

* * *

It exploded forth from the prisoner's body. A rolling wave of black sand as solid as night, like a single amorphous mass of liquid.

The force killed the nearest Huldrefolk almost instantly. Their bodies flayed, flesh stripped from bone and rock as if devoured by a swarm of insects, leaving only grotesque effigies of half-stone figures merged with upright skeletons.

The sand hung in the air, suspended for but the briefest moment. Jagged edges and half-formed tendrils, seeming like the creeping frame of some extra-terrestrial lifeform in mid-leap. And then—

The mass engulfed the man. Swallowing up the thin form of the prisoner, still dressed in the tattered clothes of an impoverished miner. All vanished behind the force of a whirling vortex of sand.

The sand crystallised. Hardening into discrete fragments, the velvety veneer of loose black grains replaced in an instant by the sheen of polished metal. Loose scales weaved into lamellar mail; black joined with black as seamlessly as if welded without heat.

Like a demon encased in black metal, the creature took shape. Leering from behind a demonic mask as dark as night, perpetually frozen in a wolfish snarl.

Black blades swept and swung, like ravens in the air. Swooping in perfect arcs, driven by agility beyond that of any dancer or warrior, trailing dark sand like brushstrokes through the air.

A Hulder's head came apart. Stone shattering like dust beneath a hideous strength, leaving behind a cloud of suspended plaster mingled with blue blood.

Another had gathered her breath for a cry. Yet what emerged was a strangled whisper, her lungs emptying uselessly through the macerated opening of her windpipe. As her head soared through the cool air, the remnants of activity in her muscles pulled her dying flesh into an expression of horrified grief. The last vestiges of life-blood throbbed n her severed skull, giving only the comfortless second-long clarity that she was already dead.

The Huldrefolk died. Falling in pieces, in confusion, in utter mindless fear, overcome by a terrible vengeance that had no place in Hulderheim or any realm of sapient beings.

It was the sensation of cool stone beneath Grand Pabbie's palms that had shocked him back into the realization that he had fallen to the floor. He moved, pushed with his knees.

_Death is here._

_It has already come._

The Nahur-kul had reacted already. The king was also a warrior.

From behind, through hidden corridors and from behind alcoves, the guards of Hulderheim streamed forward in their vast multitude.

"Raise shields, _Hulder_! Spears forward!" The Librarian King stepped forward, palms pressed together—and released them. In a burst of brilliant blue light, a sword burst into being from thin air, blazing with azure fire.

So perfect was the Huldrefolk's preservation of memory, that they held also the ability to call memories forward into life, if only for a time. Not only the memory of events, or lives, but of legends, of places, of objects—and of weapons.

Grand Pabbie knew of the sword the Hulder King had just summoned. Only a shadow, an echo—the true sword had long since been lost to time and decay. But unmistakably—

"_The Revolute Blade_," the troll whispered. The sacred sword of Aren, first king of Arendelle.

"_Archers!_" The king bellowed, sword held aloft. "_Loose volley!"_

In an instant, a thousand bowstrings released in a single soaring note echoing in the halls.

The storm of arrows fell upon the black figure, standing alone amidst the carnage of fallen Hulder warriors.

Just as the rain of steel bore down upon him—the black sand surged again. Rolled forward, like a cloud, swallowing the barrage within its dark and formless mass. Then—

Bursting forth, the arrows flew _back_. Deadly missiles hurtling treacherously back towards the Huldrefolk; faster, _darker_, now stained with terrible magic. There was intelligence in the reflected attack, some sapient malice that sought out the Hulder warriors who wielded bows and stood on high vantage points. Warriors died where they stood. Impaled against stone walls, torn apart by the sheer volume of the barrage.

The stone steps ran blue with ancient blood.

"Back, _back_! Shields up!" The Hulder King swung the echo of Revolute again, and again. The sword batted aside arrow after arrow, parrying each missile with perfect accuracy.

"Troll King! Seek safety—inside the Dome!" The king gritted his grey teeth as the shadow of Aren's blade slashed through the air, instantly immolating an oncoming arrow in a burst of blue fire.

Grand Pabbie pushed himself to his feet.

"I will not stand by—while your people _die_!" The heat was surging in his heart. "Let me help!"

The magic of Ahuur was gentler, more benign; the great serpent was a preserver and not a destroyer. But Grand Pabbie knew that the power to alter memory could also be repurposed into a powerful assault on the mind—as deadly as any blade.

His mind invoked the incantations. The same runes used to heal the mind and soothe the troubled soul—now, in reverse order, becoming a malevolent and destructive wave of psychic energy. The crystals upon his chest, threaded upon the necklace of twine, glowed crimson.

A swarm of red flies cascaded forward from his open palms, hurtling towards the enemy.

Just as the black cloud retreated back between the gaps of the creature's armor, Grand Pabbie's attack struck it squarely in the side of its helmet.

The figure reeled.

In that instant, the troll's eyes rolled into the back of his head. His diminutive body seized up, as a paralyzing force gripped his joints.

He had forgotten. Memory magic always worked both ways. The attack was the opening of a channel. And just as the destructive magic surged forward—the monster's own energy flowed backwards.

Grand Pabbie hit the ground.

* * *

_He stared, bound upon the ground, as his nostrils filled with soot and the scent of death. Stared, as the Xianbei raiders danced upon the ashen ground, kicking his father's blood-soaked head between their heavy boots._

_He wished he was blind._

_Unable to move, his ears continued to listen even when his mind desperately sought to flee. The hideous repulsive melody of flesh slapping upon flesh, of grunts and growls mingling with pitiable whimpers. The sound of his mother and sister being ravaged again and again by the Xianbei; the sound of belts being loosened and trousers dropped, as another line of raiders took their turn._

_His sister still continued to moan, keening as another raider thrust and thrust again with obscene growls, her throat raw with the wordless sounds of abject agony. His mother had long since ceased to cry out. Only dead silence—death of the soul, if not of the body._

_He wished he was deaf._

_And the utter helplessness as he lay upon the ground, hands and feet bound like that of a goat destined for slaughter, thundered upon his mind like a monsoon rain. He was no longer there, no longer a person in the eyes of those who had destroyed his family. Only a commodity, to be sold off to some other marauding tribe. Or kept for the perverse desires of some old chief who craved the flesh of young boys as much as he did young girls._

_He wished he was dead._

_He bit into his tongue. Clenched down, fighting against the sting of pain, grinding his incisors down upon the soft flesh. Perhaps biting off his tongue would bleed him out, enough to let him depart the world on his own terms._

_And yet within the pit of his belly, impotent and useless now, yet burning ever brighter, came anger. Visions swirled in his mind, even as the horrors continued around him. Visions, of the Xianbei cut open and split like butchered pigs. Visions of blades tearing into bellies, inflicting tortures that would drive even battle-hardened veterans to madness. Visions, of the blades being held in his own hands—black, like night._

_He wished for vengeance._

* * *

Grand Pabbie inhaled. His lungs screamed, as if he had been buried alive and had just burst through the ground to come up for air. Colors danced before him, dizzying and chaotic, before his vision came back into focus.

"It worked, Troll King!" Dimly, the muffled voice of the Librarian King reached him as if through a wall of rock. "We have it on its knees!"

Indeed, the creature had stumbled. Down on one knee, the demon had lost its grip on one of its blades. The pulsating remnant of the psychic attack still lingered over its helmet and pauldrons like bloodstains, glowing with destructive energy.

The Hulder warriors seized the opening.

Clambering over their dead, shielding their wounded comrades, the warriors of the underground renewed their charge. Shields locked together, spears lowered.

The phalanx advanced like an avalanche, to crush the invader beneath their feet.

Then—

The figure vanished.

Boots thundered against the stone, treading over scattered trails of black sand. Obsidian spears jabbed into nothingness. The phalanx stumbled, stalled, as the momentum of the backmost ranks ploughed them into their comrades in the front ranks, who had checked their charge in confusion.

And then it reappeared—_behind _the phalanx. Light shimmered around it, like a curtain of silver giving way to solid blackness; a shadow emerging from the depths of a nightmare.

If it had been savage before, if it had been monstrous—that was nothing, _nothing, _compared to the fury of the glare it now fixed upon Grand Pabbie.

The troll felt his knees give way, as the horrific wolfish visage fixed its bright blue eyes upon him.

The voice was not a cry—rather, a growl. But it thundered against his ears as if the creature was speaking mere inches from his face.

"_You had no right_."

The creature moved. Whirling on one foot, it turned to face the phalanx. The Hulder warriors hadn't yet reacted, had only begun to reassemble themselves.

Its arms flung out, and the black blades soared into the air. Like crows taking flight, moving with terrible impetus, and then—

"_Kheree_," the figure hissed.

The daggers melted, dissembling, then spreading out, into arcs of vibrating black sand. Sharp, thin, only a single grain thick. Flying upwards, like twin wings of some gargantuan bird of prey.

For a moment, Grand Pabbie thought that the attack had missed them entirely. Then his eyes followed the path of the sand-blades higher, and higher—

_The spheres_.

The large stone orbs hovering above the city, radiating with warm yellow light, each one the size of a palace. Seemingly floating in the air, but in reality anchored by invisible threads of magnetic magic engineered by the Huldrefolk.

Threads—

_It can see them._

"No—" The Librarian King whispered.

The black waves tore through the ceiling of the great cavern, weaving between the great stone spheres, scything, _cutting_—

Grand Pabbie felt the reverberation deep in the pit of his stomach. The magical connections, destroyed in an instant, torn apart.

The foremost sphere began to fall.

"_No!" _The Librarian King roared.

What had once been a source of light and illumination—now falling, falling like a great stone bullet, hurtling downward while blazing orange like a comet—

The force of the impact threw the Librarian King back, the Revolute Blade flying from his hand.

Grand Pabbie rolled backwards, pushed by the shockwave, helpless.

For what felt like an eternity, he lay curled up, dazed. Pain wracked his body, yapped at his joints, pounded at his skull. Unfolding himself, he stared blearily forward.

The sphere had demolished the entire block of houses just before the Library, burying itself into the stone. The Hulder warriors, the hundreds that formed the phalanx, had been—obliterated. No bodies, no blood, nothing but a stream of _dust _wafting from the crater.

And standing in front of the scene of destruction—

_It. _Staring ahead. At _him._

But no more spheres were falling.

Grand Pabbie turned.

The Librarian King was standing on the steps of the Library, as rigid as the statue he appeared to be, arms stretched heavenward. Radiating with unbelievable energy, channeling the full power of Hulderheim's magnetic magic.

The stone spheres hovered over the city, arrested in their fall.

The Hulder King's face was contorted in pain, his mouth agape in sheer agony. His body stiff as if stretched upon an invisible rack, vibrating horribly, the stone beginning to _crack_.

He was holding the entire weight of every single stone sphere up by himself.

"No, Nahur-kul…no…" Grand Pabbie crawled forward. "_No! The weight will kill you!_"

The creature was approaching. The black blades had returned to its hands. Through the dust cloud, it marched forward.

Whatever Hulder warriors were left, charged at the enemy with hopeless, reckless abandon.

The creature slashed once. A Hulder fell, cleaved from collarbone to waist, dropping to her knees even as the demon moved on. Splitting along the middle, like a carcass divided by a butcher's cleaver.

It cut again. A contemptuous flick, this time. Splitting a Hulder's belly open like knitting scissors, the open wound disgorging squirming loops of dark blue. Then the backswing, ripping through the spine and killing in an instant.

Again and again, closer and closer. Huldrefolk died, by the dozens.

And all the while, the Librarian King stood, frozen, gripped with pain, helplessly watching in bleak terror.

Watching the slaughter of his race.

The creature moved on. Unstoppable, unassailable. Merciless.

"N—n—" the Hulder King stuttered, as his mouth drew wide in a grimace of torment.

The word was a gasp from a parched throat, as he realized what he beheld. "_**Nattmara**._"

_Nightmare._

"You are brave and valiant, great king." The creature's voice was not one that belonged to any throat of flesh and blood. Like metal grinding upon rock, like the growls of some subterranean horror. "Even now, you sacrifice your body to save your people. You have my respect."

It held the blades up, braced in the stance of a knife-fighter. Gleaming, bloodstained. Menacing.

"But it is not enough."

The blow struck with the speed of a thunderbolt. As one, the two blades slashed into the Librarian King's chest. The king fell backwards, flung against the steps.

Overhead, the spheres resumed their downward path towards certain doom.

The king threw his hands up again, seeking the connection, scrabbling desperately for the threads of magic—

Late. Too late.

The shocks tore through the city.

The wave of dust swept over the Library, over the king, over the great stone steps that had outlasted millennia upon millennia of human civilization.

The Library was the highest point in Hulderheim. From where he lay, on the stone steps by the dome, the king stared, open-mouthed, with eyes of despair.

Hulderheim was in ruins. Like the projectiles of titanic trebuchets, the stone spheres had pulverized entire sections of the city. Some, tumbling and rolling, had crushed houses and towers in their destructive paths, cutting swathes of destruction across the city.

Of the lives lost, one could not dare count.

The shadow stood over him. Staring down, at the gash on the king's chest. The blades had struck with terrible force—but had barely broken the stone skin of the King-Below. Before his eyes, _impossibly_, the stone began to knit together, as if by some unseen weaver—and the shallow groove closed.

All blades, even those quenched in dark magic, were forged from metal—the fruit of the world-below, gifted to the surface people. The underground was the dominion of Yarron, the deity of unseen lands and untold secrets, who had birthed both the trolls and the Huldrefolk; the former under the light of day, the latter under a gibbous moon.

And no weapon formed from steel would ever harm the firstborn of Yarron—the King-Below.

For the first time, it was the Dagger that stepped back.

And the Librarian King arose. Tall, grey, terrible. Glabrous and invincible, his naked body of stone flexing with the hidden strength of the under-earth and its tectonic power. The surprise and shock, weakness and hesitation—all forgotten, swept away by the rousing of that primal energy which split canyons and shattered continents.

The Hulder King roared, a skull-splitting sound that thundered through the city. A wail of grief—mingled with a war cry demanding vengeance.

The Revolute Blade, lying upon the threshold of the library's entrance, flew through the air, summoned to the hand of the king.

In a fluid motion, the Librarian King caught the blazing sword in mid-air and swung it at the creature.

This time, it was the demon that was hurled backwards, struck in the chest.

The Dagger staggered. Black iron turned liquid, the breastplate eddying and reforming as the shock of the attack shattered its cohesion.

"Useless!" Like an enraged beast, the greatest of the Huldrefolk bellowed, charging forwards with the blade of legend held aloft. "Your magic is useless in my realm!"

The mighty sword shone, and the runes engraved upon its spine burned in the near-darkness. Lacking adornment, only bearing the simple and warlike shape of a weapon crafted for an age of perpetual war. And while the true blade slept with Aren's bones under a tumulus, for this one shining moment—its echo blazed in glory.

The Revolute Blade danced like the burning tail of a dragon, a crescent of blazing light. In response, the black daggers swung and jabbed, parrying the flurry of blows. But it was now the dark creature that was on the back foot. The demon's speed was frightening, but somehow, impossibly, two blades were being overwhelmed by the explosive power of a single sword wielded by a being driven beyond rage.

"You creature of death! You creeping thing! Fight me if you can! I will destroy you! It is useless!"

Powered by rage, by grief, by utter hopelessness, the King-Below attacked with the fervor of one possessed. The regret at trying and failing to save his people—channeled into a speed and agility too blinding to follow with the eye.

"Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless!"

Then in an overhead cleave, the King-Below drove his blade down—and the creature's twin blades shattered, broken in one fell swoop.

"**_Useless!_**"

The monster was down on one knee. Driven down by the force of the blow—the enemy, laid low. Some low noise was coming from his throat—growling, or droning, almost too low to be perceived.

"Your blades fail you," the Librarian King growled, the Revolute Blade held before him. "No weapon made by human hands can break my body."

The growling stopped.

"No," the creature snarled back.

It turned its face to the Hulder King.

"_But this will_."

* * *

It came without warning.

Bursting from the ground, through the _stone itself_, writhing and shrieking—

A worm. But unlike anything Grand Pabbie had seen before. Nothing about that rippling mass of sand-orange flesh, that hideous speed, or that unsettling intelligence, belonged to a creature that lived in peace with the earth.

The death-worm flung itself, like a python, upon the Librarian King. The maw, ringed with conical teeth, closed upon his exposed neck.

The shadow of Aren's blade tumbled from his hand—and vanished, the memory finally lost. The Revolute Blade of old, returning to forgotten history.

The king of all the Huldrefolk fell to the ground.

It was the first time in his life that Grand Pabbie had heard the Librarian King scream. And from that day forward, it was a sound that would never leave his nightmares.

* * *

The caustic venom of the death-worm was so completely repellent to life that even the scent of it could render a wheat field barren within a single hour. Diluted and filtered carefully, in minute quantities, it was the weapon of the ancient _aluurchin_ of the Gobi.

But in its raw and unrefined form, several orders of magnitude more concentrated, secreted in such great quantities from the death-worm's fangs and venomous glands that it overflowed like a sap—

Stone cracked, and broke. Crumbled like plaster, collapsing inwards into grey sand.

The king screamed.

The toxin ran down freely upon his right shoulder. The arm cracked, twisted, fingers curled—and then, in its entirety, snapped away from his body.

The king screamed.

His face was a ruin, pockmarked by hollow pockets carved by the flecks of the worm's spittle. The edge of his mouth peeled backwards, the flesh melting and crumbling as the arch of his eye socket gave way.

The king screamed.

And all the while, the Dagger looked down mercilessly.

* * *

When the worm had sated its hunger, it detached itself—and vanished back into the belly of the earth.

The _olgoi-khorkhoi _had grown far more rapidly than he could have anticipated. Perhaps fed by the great reservoir of Northern magic underground, a larval stage that should have lasted a day was accomplished in mere minutes. And the tunnel into the underground city, which he had estimated would take the worm a week to dig, was complete within a single day.

Beneath his feet, he felt the vibrations of the annelid assassin tunneling through the stone. It had begun the day as a larva barely the size of a thumbnail. It was now as long as a Tartar python—and unimaginably more deadly. _And it was still growing._

The Dagger did not seek to summon it again. A juvenile worm lacked the connection to the _Elsen Shuurga _that was only established in adulthood—uncontrollable, rabid, it was as much a danger to the _aluurchin _as it was to their enemy. Perhaps it would wander deeper into the city, to feed on what was left of the strange race.

He looked dispassionately down at his enemy.

The king was half-destroyed. His body had been broken; chest caved inwards like cracked pottery, one arm crushed, one leg nothing more than a stump. What was once no doubt a proud member of an ancient and noble race now stared back from a ruined half-skull.

There would be time.

The Dagger turned, towards the other creature.

Short, fat, round like a boulder, staring back with an expression of sheer horror. The creature that had visited the terrible visions upon his mind—and had dredged up a hatred that had lain buried for thousands of years, from a time when China was still fractured, from an age in which the Great Wall would not be built for another hundred years. The same creature which had invaded a sanctum within his mind that he had almost forgotten.

The same creature, he promised, which would soon cease to exist.

Black sand reformed in his hands into twin daggers, ready and ever sharp. The Dagger marched forward.

Then, crushing pressure.

Against his will, he knelt.

A force dragged him to the ground. Like the weight of a mountain, bearing down upon him—

The king was still alive. With his one remaining hand, reaching forward—pinning him down with his magic. Even as the Dagger struggled against the titanic invisible weight, he found it within himself to feel a rush of admiration.

"Troll King!" the broken king cried out. "I give you—what you seek!"

In an instant, the king's eye—the _silver _eye—burst from its socket, leaving a trail of dust. Flying through the air, like a bullet from a sling, landing in the palm of the short boulder-like creature.

"The answer—the secret of the gods—there! Take it, take it and _leave!_"

The king turned his hand around, away from the Dagger, pointing it at the creature. In an instant, the pressure lifted—and then, a blaze of blue light.

Azure fire, burning along a network of intersecting lines upon the floor, then—

Gone. Nothing remained of the short creature. Vanished. _Escaped._

The Dagger turned around. Faced the king.

"You—are—a monster—" The king's arm remained outstretched. Then, like sand crumbling off a sandcastle, two fingers broke off and collapsed into dust. "You have killed—thousands, _tens _of thousands of an ancient race who have lived—longer than men could ever imagine."

The black mask glared back. And then melted away, cold ebony melting away to reveal a tired, worn human face.

"The loss of your people weighs upon my heart. Truly." He was sincere. And his sincerity made it all the more frightening.

"_Curse you_," spat the king.

And then, "_why_?"

The Dagger sheathed his blades, burying the hilts in the line of his belt. Slowly, he sat down upon the steps of the great stairway, his posture relaxed. The battle was over, the foe broken. The creeping, pitiful thing that lay shattered upon the steps was no longer an enemy.

"I harbor no enmity. I do not hate." The black-masked creature folded his arms over his knees. "I had every intention of simply taking what I came for, and leaving in peace."

"In _peace—_"

The Dagger turned, his arm pointing at the stone pillars at the far end of the courtyard. "Until you showed me _that_."

The king's one remaining eye swiveled precariously in a half-intact socket. Roaming over the rows of pillars arrayed like trees; some had been knocked over in the ensuing chaos. Many were nearly intact cylinders of smooth stone, betraying only the odd irregularity that hinted at the human remains entombed within. While in others, worn away by the erosion of time—

Two lovers, entwined in an embrace, the terror on their young faces petrified for all time in pure stone. Choosing to face each other in their last moments; the stone swallowing them up from the torsos down, blending into the mass of the pillar.

A mother, raising her child above her head, the desperation evident on her face, the _tears _perfectly captured as stone globules on her cheeks. Her body twisted in pain; in her last moments, feeling the change, feeling her body give way to eternal agony, she had sought to fling the babe away, to save her child from the same fate—late, too late. Mother and infant stood, like a mockery of a Madonna, a sculpture evoking grief and revulsion instead of hallowed respect.

"I did not lie, king." The Dagger lowered his hand. "I was indeed born on the steppes of the Dzungar basin, so many thousands of years ago. My people had a saying—that all the nomads under the sky are children of the great wolf." He lowered his head. "These men and women, those you have killed simply for the crime of entering your kingdom—_they were my kindred_."

"I can hear them. Even now." The Dagger turned his eyes upwards. "Can you? Or have your ears become deaf to the voices of the human race?"

He paused, his lips parted slowly, his ears twitching as if seeking some melody just beyond the range of hearing.

The armor-clad hand opened, fingers curved in the air. "_Avenge us_. That is what they say. That is their plea. Echoing through the years, preserved for all time." The hand closed into a fist. "None remain to hear them. None remain to answer. Until me."

"They were _human_. They were not welcome in my realm. I had every right to treat them as they deserved!" The king spat. "And for that—for them! Mortals with finite lives! Ants!—you have turned Hulderheim to, to—"

The Dagger turned his gaze, almost contemptuously, to survey the scene of destruction.

"You said it yourself—human cities rise, and they fall eventually. Dust turning to dust." A hand unconsciously brushed against the hilt of one of his daggers. "So why should your kingdom be any different?"

His nose wrinkled in barely-hidden derision. It was a foreign expression; a _human _expression.

"You talk about the sanctity of your realm. The righteousness of your judgement." The Dagger turned back to face the king. "I have heard this a hundred times before from a hundred kings and emperors, emirs and khans. Raging at the sky, thundering their divine right to preside over an everlasting dominion. _So far have you come, but come no further._"

His lips puckered; he had to stop himself from spitting. "There is nothing special in you. Nothing unique about your sovereign right. Behind all your self-aggrandizement, lies the same base instinct of a dog pissing against a tree to mark its territory, yelping and barking at other dogs to leave it alone. You do not deserve immortality, great king."

"You have destroyed—more than you can imagine—" the king no longer even sounded angry. Only _broken_. "Hulderheim was the seat of the earth's power—without the city, without me—can you even comprehend what you have done?"

"I know exactly what I have done." The mask of black metal shimmered, like a liquid. "To these souls, the dead whose blood were of my blood, I have granted _peace_."

An armored hand waved in the air, hooking into a claw as if clutching a bird in mid-flight.

Across the courtyard, a wave of black sand burst from the cracked floor. Swallowing the stone pillars, swirling around the forest of entombed souls like a swarm of dark locusts. And then—vanishing, leaving nothing but dust.

For a moment, there came the faintest echo of a chorus of sighs.

"I have granted them vengeance. I now grant them rest." The Dagger bowed his head. "And as for you—"

He rose to his feet. The mask reformed. The face of the wolf sneered back once more.

"You know what I have come for."

The king spat. "I have nothing for you, _monster_."

"That power. The magic to travel through the land in an instant. The power you hold." The Dagger stepped closer.

"You will never have it." Lying on his back, facing upwards with a ruined face, the king was still defiant. "The _Leyden_—it belongs to the Huldrefolk. Somewhere—you can never reach it. You can never take it from us."

"You lie." The Dagger towered over the king now. "Your first mistake was revealing the existence of that power. Your second mistake, was _using _it in front of me, to send your friend away to safety. Because now I know where it is hidden."

His hand plunged forward, into the wound in the king's chest. The layer of ruined stone, rendered porous by the death-worm's venom, crumpled inwards like the shell of an egg.

Ashen, half-collapsed, what was left of the king's face was deformed by anguish. Pain beyond pain, so extreme as to steal away the breath, even the ability to scream—

The Dagger dug. Twisted. Pushed. And pulled.

Like ripping a weed by its roots, he pulled. Feeling the snap of tissue and rock giving way. Felt the flow of life through his fingers. His fingertips brushed against the texture of stone, warm and humming.

His hand resurfaced, clutching the king's stone heart. Beating with a bright blue light, pulsing like a beacon amidst the falling dust and the fading light. Ensnared in a mesh of dark blue vine-like tubules that knotted together into a rope of many cords, leading back into the gaping hole of what was left of his ribcage.

"No—" came the weak cry.

The Dagger could sense it. The pulsing of magic mingled with blood, the maddening rhythm as if the heart itself was a sentient entity reacting to imminent danger. It did not beat like a human heart, contracting like a muscular pump; the walls were solid and unmoving, yet the magic flowed on.

He took the time to marvel at the uniqueness of life, in all its myriad forms from the vast ocean to the underground, from the sky to the darkness of the eternal sandstorm. Pondered the inseparable entanglement of organic life with hard stone, and wondered how it all came to be.

He looked into the single eye of the king. So much of his form had crumbled away that the creature looked almost half-merged with the rubble upon the ground. Still, the ancient being continued to glare at him, defiant.

His other hand rose, clutching a black dagger.

"_What are you_?" whispered the old king.

The Dagger gripped the heart, the black blade hovering over it. Carefully.

"Die curious," he spoke simply.

He plunged the blade down.

The power of Gurun surged to life. Tendrils of magic from the great Khan of the Desert reached outward through his blood, through the vessels in his fingers, into the metal of the blade. Piercing into the heart of stone, seeking the core of magic.

"_Uusgakh_," he spoke the sign. _Assimilate. _And the glyph on his shoulder burned.

The king thrashed, his remaining stone arm slamming against the floor again and again. A finger snapped off, and then another. He shrieked, keened with an agony that defied imagination, and continued to scream even as the flakes of stone began to crumble from his face like soot. Like a sculpture of ash and mud returning back to entropy, fragments of rock and metal breaking apart as life departed irrevocably.

All the while, the Dagger maintained his grip. The vines of blue squirmed, undulated between his fingers. He inhaled, as the primal magic of the earth began to merge with that of the Great Khan.

A vision opened in his mind, and he knew that he had _it_.

A vast network of magic, blue fire traversing across the land and under it; through great mountains and intersecting on verdant green fields, running unimpeded across mighty fjords and charting erratic paths across glaciers.

_Leyden_.

The Dagger drank from the font of that power. Drained it, wrested every last vestige of the primordial magic from that most ancient of Northern creatures.

Only when the stone heart had become cold and heavy in his hand, and the vine-like vessels hung flaccid like rotting offal, did he allow it to fall from his grip. It shattered like a clay vase, and then was no more.

Nothing remained of the king. He knew not when the ancient creature had stopped screaming, when it was that no more consciousness remained to perceive pain, but it was moot. Where once lay the proud ruler of a subterranean people, there was now only dust. Outlined in the rough effigy of what could have been a human shape, but no different from the detritus that now coated the steps and filled the ruins of the city.

He sheathed his blade.

Something bumped against the edge of his foot. Spherical, light. He brought it up to the failing light—whatever little illumination radiated from the demolished spheres had begun to be swallowed up by the gathering dust cloud.

A stone sphere, lined with intricate symbols and patterns. The largest among them was a single icon of four eyes clustered within a circle.

It had not been destroyed along with the old king. Within, he could feel the hum of quiescent magic.

Perhaps it would be useful.

Into the depths of his coat, the sphere disappeared.

The Dagger stood. Atop the great stone staircase that towered over the city, his vision lingered on the vista of catastrophic ruin. The great stone spheres had simply—_erased_—portions of the city; of whatever remained, perhaps only some remnant could be inhabitable. The great canals and vast underground streams were choked with rubble and debris.

Not all had been slain. He could sense—_hear—_heartbeats among the wreckage. Some beat with faint and paroxysmal rhythms, and those would soon be silenced. But others beat with steady beats, leaving no doubt that at least some of the ancient race would live to see the end of the day.

He had unequivocally, irreversibly condemned this strange subterranean race to certain death. Perhaps in days, perhaps in decades. Their civilization was finished. Their shelter devastated, their light extinguished, their rivers poisoned. He did not know if such a race could starve to death. He suspected they would soon wish they could.

The rapidity of his own pulse brought his thoughts back to more earthly matters. Two fingers pressed against the radial pulse of his wrist. _A hundred and fifty beats per minute_. He had been cutting it close. Had the combat dragged on any further, had the magic demanded more of his blood—his heart could have gone into fibrillation.

He had been sloppy. Too gripped by the sudden paroxysm of rage, too disorientated by the onset of visions of what must have once been his life. He had recognized fragments; faces, names, sounds. The magical attack of that short rock-like creature had been disruptive and malicious.

He would find it, and show it the full measure of the rage it had incited.

_Not yet._

_Not in the shape I'm in._

Even now, his head was light. His vision was beginning to fray at the edges. Only the immense mental and physical conditioning of the _aluurchin_ sustained his body and combat-readiness.

It was hard to tell, in the midst of combat, exactly how much of his life-blood he had been expending. The power of Gurun exacted a heavy price that came with interest. The teachings of the _Elsen Shuurga _maintained that a healthy warrior in his prime could hold sixteen parts of life-blood—for him, that was perhaps closer to fourteen. The summoning of the _Khuyag_, the forming of his blades, the use of invisibility, the summoning of the iron-sand—

He gazed at his palm, as the armor of Gurun retracted to reveal the flesh underneath. Pale, punctuated with numerous pink points. Cool to the touch.

By his estimate, he had used up nearly half of his life-blood in a single battle. A staggering quantity that would have slain any warrior; the equivalent of a mortal wound in combat.

He continued to regulate his breathing, slowing his heart rate. He could mitigate the damage, buy time for his body to recover. There were herbs in his satchel to thicken his blood, drugs made from extract of kidney. With meditation and the desert-trance, he could be combat ready again in a day and a half.

But he had no time for slower measures. For he was nearly seven miles beneath the surface of the earth, and his only hope for escape lay in the power he had just seized for his own.

The Dagger reached into his satchel for the needle. A thin, silver blade attached to a bulb of clear crystal, filled with colorless liquid. _Death-worm venom._

In its raw form, it was excruciating death that would destroy the body by virtue of its corrosive power.

Diluted by ten thousand parts, it was a swift-acting poison that could slay a man near instantly while leaving no visible trace of damage or injury.

And diluted by another ten thousand parts—it became a potent drug that strengthened the heart and kindled fire in the arteries, to bring warriors back from the brink of death.

Strange, then, that life and death lay in the same substance, differing only by orders of dilution. _For the dose makes the poison_.

He stabbed the needle into his thigh.

His body burned. His heart pounded, his blood roared in his ears. His vision began to clear.

He had bought time.

The Dagger raised his hand, hoping that the toll he was about to pay was within his capacity to bear.

"_Elsen Shuurga_." He closed his fist.

The sandstorm erupted all around, enveloping him, whirling and churning. What remained of the broken king simply vanished, expelled by the tempest.

Then in a flash of blue light, the Dagger was gone.

* * *

It was the sensation of stabbing cold that told him he had succeeded.

His vision returned, an ocean of dull grey reforming into shapes and outlines. Then came the headache, and the nausea in the pit of his belly.

He did not want to think about how much life-blood he had left.

The Dagger took a step, feeling the snow crunch beneath his heel. The snowstorm swirled and danced around him, howling and shrieking, blinding and disorienting. Sight was useless in the midst of a blizzard. He could feel the heat of his body being siphoned off by the wind, leaking like blood from open wounds. The snow buffeted him, each fleck pummeling him with the force of a slingshot. He would be dead in minutes.

He had seen worse odds.

Within the path of the _Elsen Shuurga_, he had sensed the trail of that short stony creature. Had followed it, vengeance burning within him like a beacon. And yet as he felt himself about to catch up, that trail had vanished, and the way had been barred as surely as if by a stone wall. It was clever. Of course, any fugitive with half a brain would think of erasing his own footprints.

No matter. He would find his prey, whether in a day or a decade. Patience came easily to a man whose lifetime outspanned the longevity of entire dynasties. But his own personal, petty quarrel could wait.

His true quarry was elsewhere.

He could smell her, hear her, _taste_ her. The absorption of that ancient Northern magic from the king's heart had expanded the _Elsen Shuurga _beyond what he had imagined possible. Information came from within the eye of the sandstorm that raged unseen beneath the currents of reality; visions, as real and tangible as those fed by his own senses.

Soft skin, velvety-smooth, paler than moonlight. Hair that glistened and flowed freely like quicksilver. A body that moved with grace, its sensuality and curvature barely concealed by an alabaster-white gown.

And power. Ancient, deep, sonorous, resonating with the full power of a rumbling avalanche.

_Kill the witch, who is no queen._

He could see the threat. As surely as if it had been laid out for him in bold letters and large print. He did not need the insight of his magic; the intelligence of his mind would suffice. So long as the witch lived, the people of Gurun would never know peace or victory.

_I see my enemy, and with that sight I bring death._

Not yet. Not now, not the way he was.

_Feed._

Life-blood. Magic. Freely given, forcibly taken. The former was preferable to the latter; far more potent, far more enduring. But he was not in a position to be particular.

In the middle of a snowstorm, upon the tallest mountain in the land, miles from the nearest dwelling-place, his options were slim.

_Then—_

A roar broke through his thoughts. At first, he thought it was the swell of the blizzard that thrashed and scourged the mountainside. It was only when the heavy footfalls broke through the background noise that he realized it had come from something _living._

He turned.

A shadow loomed, taller than the trees, larger than even the greatest bear. In that instant, in the near darkness, its irregular form summoned tales of the _Mirka_, a large devil-creature that had stalked the Tibetan mountains in which he had once plied his deadly trade. The monster that the Sherpas, in their whispered warnings and campfire stories, had called _Yeti._

Then his eyes adjusted, and the shadow sharpened. A body moulded from pure snow, hulking and imposing; joints crafted from ice shaped into interlocking hinges. Like spears, an array of spikes glistened across its back; clear as glass, sharp as steel. And if its violent nature was not evident enough in its form_—_there was no mistaking the terrible fury in its eyes.

A golem.

And behind it loomed a wondrous sight he would never have imagined possible. A castle, glittering and resplendent, reflecting a dazzling array of colours through the chaos of the blizzard. A structure created from pure _ice_, suspended impossibly upon the side of the tallest mountain in the land. Magic flowed forth from it, radiated from it, spilled from it as if from a fountain.

The witch's power. Concentrated here, preserved in this locus in such concentrated quantities as to obviate the need for his magical senses. He could just as easily taste it with his tongue.

_Tengri be praised._

The golem approached. Growling, claws outstretched, mouth agape.

He took his pulse. The cold would constrict his capillaries, shunting the blood to his vital organs. The remnants of the death-worm's diluted venom continued to act, and he knew his muscles could maintain their pace.

He had, perhaps, five parts of life-blood remaining. Five parts, out of his initial fourteen. A quantity that, in ordinary men, would spell death by exsanguination.

He had slaughtered armies before with _less_.

The Dagger stared at the golem.

"_Khuyag._"

And his magic obeyed.

* * *

**And so ends the longest chapter of The White Hun, at least so far. It wasn't until it was complete that I realised its length exceeded that of the first five chapters _combined_.**

**First of all, a shout-out to two fellow authors who have been such steadfast and encouraging supporters of this story through every single chapter and every step of the journey. To simplesnowflake, whose supportive words rescued this fic from abandonment and whose reviews spurred my muse into persevering through this journey. And to lianthuss, whose boundless enthusiasm and amazing reviews brought cheer (and maybe a few screams) from a weary heart. To them both, I owe my thanks and much more.**

**And secondly, to those who've read Forest of Shadows by Kamilla Benko, this chapter was a nod to the novel. Admittedly, the Huldrefolk, Librarian King, and the underground city bear little to no resemblance to their appearance in the novel. As to the continuity of canon, and as to whether the events of Forest of Shadows truly occurred in this timeline, I offer only that perhaps all stories are both equally true and equally false. Every story happened, and none of them ever did.**

**For those who haven't read the novel, nothing has changed.**

**And to those who spotted the JoJo's reference hidden within these fourteen thousand words, let me know.**

**Keep reading. Follow my journey.**

_**I have another story. Listen...**_


	16. Chapter 16: Across The Table

**Chapter 16: Across The Table**

* * *

**_Combat Theme: Karangailyg Kara Hovaa (Dyngyldai) by Yat-Kha_**

* * *

The duel began, and Mattias was almost too late. Almost.

He swung his infantry sword upwards just in time. The shock slammed through the joint of his elbow like a hammer, driving tears to his eyes. His knee buckled.

The great blade of the _khanda_ scraped against the edge of the lieutenant's sword, sliding off as the warrior recovered his footing in an instant. Mattias beat a retreat, putting a few steps between himself and his enemy.

A glancing blow, a test of strength. He hadn't missed it. The warrior's waist had been solid and unmoving as the trunk of an oak, his chest barely even heaving with the effort. That crippling swing had been delivered with nothing but the strength of his forearms.

He was outmatched.

_Stay strong. Remember what this is for._

The lieutenant bent forward, a cold hand unconsciously massaging the ache in his arthritic knee. The sword felt cumbersome, a cold weight tugging at his wrist. His wet uniform had begun to harden in the cold; his skin crawled underneath, gooseflesh creeping up his back.

The bearded warrior stepped closer. Dressed only in a tunic, having discarded his armor. The thin fabric did nothing to conceal the numerous deep scars on his broad chest. If Mattias had any hope at all that the cold was wearing his opponent down, it was a vain one. Huvishka wasn't even _breathing _harder than usual.

"Again." The only word, before the Kushan warrior charged like a raging bull.

A sideward slash this time, delivered with the _khanda _clutched in only one hand. Nomadic fury slammed into Arendellian steel; Mattias had brought the sword up to a sloppy 'window guard' a bare half-second before it had claimed his neck.

The sound pierced his ears like a loom through fabric; he winced, blinked twice. Already the _khanda _had been withdrawn, in time for another blow. _Clang_—an upward cut now, blocked just inches from the lieutenant's femoral artery by the crossguard of the Nordic falchion.

All the while, he was stepping backwards, heart thudding in desperation.

He needed space. Huvishka would give him none.

The one stolen glance to the right—Anna, her frightened eyes never leaving Mattias, her hand having joined that of her lover, the mountaineer who had sworn to follow her in life, and in death.

_Anna. Hold on._

Eyes watering, ears chafing with the spine-chattering sound of steel on steel, Mattias sought an opening. A gap between the incessant attacks, a moment of imbalance. There was none. The _khanda _swung in large devastating arcs, each blow delivering nearly more force with one arm than Mattias could withstand with two.

No finesse, no clever movements; the Kushan moved like a hurricane, and a storm needed no cleverness except raw devastating fury. He could do nothing, nothing except parry, parry, parry—until his strength failed, until his reflexes lagged behind for that final second—

_Lose, and your queen is lost._

_Die, and Anna dies._

Mattias stepped backwards, drawing the sword against his chest, his arms flexing in anticipation of the counter-riposte—

And it happened.

* * *

The annals of history are filled with the tales of great men and women, threads against the vast and unending tapestry of time. From their ebullient lives are woven great and wondrous tales of desperate last stands, fantastic triumphs against impossible odds, the colorful legacy passed on through oral and written traditions.

And yet, across this delicate fabric comes the cutting edge of the knife of fate. Ending threads before their time, rending the tapestry and leaving wounds with their raw edges dangling in the wind. Unfinished stories, incomplete arcs. Symphonies ended on an awkward, ragged note, leaving only silence to fill the gap.

Emerging from the dark unknowing vortex of pure chance, the knife takes a thousand forms through the length and breadth of history. The arrow that slew King Josiah, disguised as a common charioteer, loosed by an Egyptian archer who knew not his target. The goblet of wine that choked the lungs of a sleeping Attila, sprawled across the banqueting table, and ended the greatest threat to the Western Roman Empire. The roof tile, hurled by a desperate Macedonian woman, which crushed the spine of Pyrrhus of Epirus, ending the life of the great king.

Fate, chance, or destiny. Ending stories before their time.

And now, the blade struck again.

In the simple, humble form of a mere outcrop of rock, a scattered offshoot of the great mountain. Rolled by thunderous winds, battered by blizzards, ground down by glacial ice and migrating snow—until, like a chess piece, the hand of fate had placed it in the snow.

And the thread was cut.

* * *

Mattias tripped.

He felt it. The snow rolling from under his boot, as his weight hurtled irrevocably backwards. The biting mountain air whistling past his ears, his heart leaping upwards into his throat like a trapped frog, straining against the roof of his mouth until its maddening beat pulsed against his skull. The pull of gravity against his body as defeat—and death—came swiftly and ignominiously.

The sword, tumbling from his grasp as his frozen fingers finally betrayed him.

And then, pain.

Like a lightning bolt, illuminating every contour of the jagged rock that protruded, half-buried, from the snow. Painting its knife-like surface in the white-hot colours of distilled agony that slammed into his spine and tore through his back.

Mattias' throat opened as his back seized, his limbs suddenly useless. Faintly he felt himself roll off the edge of the rock, his flaccid bulk collapsing on its side. His spine was a burning core of excruciating pain, pulling the muscles of his back involuntarily into a grotesque arch. His breath was hot, his eyes watering, his head an exploding firework.

He found himself looking down, through tear-stained eyes, at his legs. They felt like leaden weights attached to his hip, disconnected and alien. He willed his right foot to move, to wiggle.

His foot remained still. Silent.

_No._

His mind still worked, dimly. Uselessly, whirring along like a machine with no end or purpose, even as his fingers grasped and flailed feebly for his sword. Forming thoughts, useless thoughts, as calmly as if he was seated on a bench by the sea, watching the sunset.

_So it's over._

He never expected his opponent to waste any time, and to the very end, he was right.

Huvishka pounced forward, the _khanda _held in a double-handed grip, his strides purposeful but unhurried. No final utterance, no cry, nothing from his lips but the steady exhalation of breath. A butcher, moving forward with his cleaver.

Mattias let his head fall back, fixed his eyes on the light of the stars. And let his thoughts run.

Thoughts of silver-grey hair draping a worn dark face, marred by the passage of time. Yet familiar and as warm as a fireplace, for the wrinkles were in the right places, and the smile was exactly the same.

Thoughts of a future to be shared, a lifetime to be explored together. Thoughts of the end; thoughts of surprise that it would come so soon.

He closed his eyes, and tried to think of Halima.

**"_Stooooooooooop!_"**

* * *

The Kushan's arms were coiled, his fingers tight over the handle of the broad double-handed _khanda_. He shifted his weight off his front foot; he had been inches away from lunging at the fallen Northern soldier.

And now he stared, at the young girl that blocked his path.

Auburn hair tumbled over snow-swept shoulders, her pale cheeks marred with the path of tears. She stretched out her arms, even as they trembled in the cold, barring his path with her own body.

"Stop—stop—don't—"

"Step aside, girl." He adjusted his grip on the _khanda_. "This is a battle between warriors."

The dark-skinned Northerner was lying on his back, hissing in agony, his legs straight and unmoving. Huvishka was familiar with the posture—men thrown from their horses, or fallen from heights.

"No—_no_!" Though her voice trembled, the girl refused to move. "It's over, it's not him you want! You hear me? You don't want him—you want _me_!"

The temptation to bat her aside—it would take barely a flick of the wrist—and finish his business was overpowering.

But to his side, he spotted the other servant-man. The tall blond, his great bulk filling out his leather shirt, standing behind the girl. Muscular arms strained beneath furred sleeves. Brother, lover? No doubt one invested in her well-being.

Her, he could overcome without trouble. But _him_—he may have a problem on his hands, even with the _khanda._

And Huvishka was not one to engage in a fight needlessly.

"You are a mere servant girl of Arendelle." The Kushan warrior braced the edge of the _khanda _against his shoulder. "My quarrel is with your superior. Why would I want _you_?"

"Because I am _not _a servant girl!"

She inhaled.

"Mattias was trying to protect me. Protect all of us." Her lips quivered, and yet her gaze did not break. "He—he lied, to protect me. You said that Arendelle—we are your enemy. If that's true—then _I'm _your enemy."

She threw her shoulders back, her cloak fluttering in the wind. And at once, somehow, seemed taller and fiercer to Huvishka.

"My name," she spoke, "is Anna. I am the daughter of King Agnarr, and granddaughter of King Runeard. And I am the Queen of Arendelle."

Her fists balled.

"So if you have to take someone—please. Leave Mattias." She stared ahead. "Take me instead."

* * *

When her arms fell, Anna felt her courage falling as well.

Her hand grasped the brooch under her neck, pulling the cloak closer even as the wind threatened to tear it from her shoulders.

_What—what have I done?_

Her fingers closed tightly around the brooch. Underneath the back of her hand—her heart hammered. Her mouth was sandpaper-dry.

_Oh no—_

It had sounded brave. Heroic and stirring, ringing in the air like the chime of a chapel bell.

Now, as the snowfall reclaimed the noise and brought back the near-silence, her words fell back to earth with a very different flavor. A sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. One that wouldn't go away.

_What did I just do?_

_I need to save Mattias—save all of us—they were going to kill—_

_And now—_

Mattias' sacrifice had just been wasted.

_The next right thing, _she had said. And all through the night, that terrible night, she was reminded that she had done only the next wrong thing, and the next one after that.

The ring of warriors around them had drawn tighter. A wall of silver light reflected off shiny scales, bare swords, and helmets.

The warrior before her was as still as a rock. Planted in the snow, his sword at the ready.

She was still holding the brooch.

_Wait. No, Anna. You're going down swinging. You have a sword—_

And she _did_. A well-made Friesian sword, gifted by a Dutch dignitary many years ago. And it was sitting back in the castle, next to a book on fencing technique that she hadn't touched.

_Okay. So you _don't _have a sword._

The warrior had lowered his blade. And now fixed Anna with a glower that seemed almost capable of setting trees on fire.

She knew. They had been slaves, brutally oppressed by King Runeard of Arendelle. Their kin murdered, their dignity taken away, herded into camps and worked to death.

And she was Runeard's granddaughter.

Anna took a step backwards.

_If I jab the brooch in his face really hard, maybe I could—_

Then Mattias groaned behind her, and Anna was dragged back to reality.

The reality that they were one mountaineer, one reindeer, an injured soldier, and a woman. A woman who happened to be the queen of Arendelle, and the direct descendant of the very man who had condemned ten thousand people to slavery and oppression.

_Elsa—_

"_We'll do this together. Both of us. We'll make this right."_

The short, stone-faced warrior kept his glare, his beard ruffled in the light winter wind.

And then, he opened his mouth.

"_Hurdan!_"

A stir went through the gathered troops, rippling through the wall of armor like a wave.

The bearded nomad continued to bark at his troops, his voice as sonorous and heavy as the blast of a war horn. And from the deep dark, his soldiers began to emerge. The light of torches shone off the polished metal of cruel, curved swords.

She heard Kristoff gasp in surprise, felt his presence draw closer to her. Heard Sven's grunt of apprehension.

The approaching footsteps of warriors from behind. Cutting off their escape.

_Here it comes._

Anna almost closed her eyes, tears stinging, when she heard their leader switch at last to her language.

"Hurry, you filthy rats! Where are your manners, you animals? Prepare the fire and the table, get the wine and meat and bread! Stop dragging your feet, and by _Tengri _try to look presentable!"

With a mighty thrust, he plunged the heavy blade into the thick snow, where it stood upright.

"Behave yourself! We are in the presence of a queen!"

His scarred and leathery hand, capable of easily wielding a blade that would have dragged lesser men under its weight, imbued with terrible strength—now swept across his body, as the bearded warrior pulled himself into a stiff bow.

"Your Majesty."

_Wait, what?_

* * *

"Lieutenant Mattias—" Kristoff knelt in the snow, an arm reaching around the old soldier's shoulders. He was cold, limp. For one terrifying moment—Kristoff looked into his ashen face, and feared the worst.

Then Mattias blinked slowly, and groaned. A painful sound, wordless and high-pitched. A wrinkled hand seized Kristoff's wrist in a viselike grip.

"Kristoff—"

"I'm here, lieutenant. Are you hurt?"

"Kristoff—where's Anna—"

"She's—" Kristoff raised his head, his brow wrinkling. Then turned back to the lieutenant. "I think she's with them. They won't harm her. Not now."

"Anna—Kristoff—you need to get her out of here. Now." Mattias' grip tightened. "They know who she is. Whatever they say, whatever they _do_—Anna is in more danger now than ever." He stopped, his blue-tinged lips trembling, as he tried to catch his breath. Kristoff had never seen him this weak.

"We're all getting out of here, lieutenant." Kristoff held the older man's body closer, pulling him upwards. Then Mattias gave a hiss of agony, his back arching like the spine of a bow. Kristoff immediately relaxed his grip.

"Kristoff—leave me. Take Anna, get on Sven—get out of here."

"Lieutenant, you have to get up. We need you—we—" Kristoff's lips were clammy. His hands shivered, as he held the man close.

"No," Mattias shook his head blearily. "It's no use—listen to me. Listen. Leave me." He stared downwards, past his waist, grief painted on his features.

"Kristoff—_I can't feel my legs._"

* * *

_**Steppe Theme: Altain Chimeg by Khusugtun**_

* * *

Anna stood, stock-still. Like the doll at the center of a fairground carousel, motionless. And around her, like clockwork dolls buzzing precisely around each other, the warriors moved like dancers on a ballroom floor.

Armor jingled like wind chimes with quick footsteps; swords came dangerously close to her body as their wielders stepped around each other. It was like she wasn't there, not to them. Like a leaf caught in a hurricane, tossed around before sticking—somehow—like a limpet to a rock. Clinging on for dear life, even as the world spun.

Something caught her attention. A smell of—

She sniffed.

_Smoked herring?_

_And—filmjölk?_

"Come! Queen of _Arendelle_!" The stocky warrior cried out, his voice like a horn-blast. "Sit by the table!"

Anna blinked. It had been barely a few minutes.

The clearing in the woods had been transformed.

A fire cackled cheerfully within a shallow pit, ringed by rocks. A warrior stood over it, raking the coals with the end of a horseman's pick, his crescent-shaped shield planted upright in the thick snow as a barrier against the wind. He barely looked at Anna.

A table—an actual _table_—had been raised in the middle of the clearing. A wooden slat balanced on boulders that two warriors had dragged, using their bare hands, with almost no effort at all.

And sitting at the table was the very warrior that had felled Mattias. His armoured shirt was back over his back and chest, along with a furred coat. He sat, broad-legged, in a posture of confidence and assurance.

"Come, come! Sit, and let us eat. I am starving!" came the horn-like voice again. And then a thud, like a fist hitting on wood.

Anna strode forward. Stepped past the heavily-armoured warriors, their faces obscured by veils of chainmail, their weapons unsheathed and hungry. Like statues, they formed two impassable rows that funnelled her forward, like a fish into a trap. Towards the makeshift table, looming ahead like a place of execution.

_Like you have a choice, Anna._

Behind, she heard Mattias' groans, and the whispered words between him and Kristoff. She had seen him fall, from a distance, and had been so focused on rushing over to save him that she hadn't checked to see how badly he had been hurt.

_Only a bruise. Mattias is a soldier. He's gotten worse before._

Their survival depended on her.

She reached the table. Two flat boulders, set on opposite ends. She took her seat. The stone was cold—through the fabric of her dress, and her underdress.

Anna tried not to shiver.

_Where is that smell of __filmjölk coming from?_

Then the bearded warrior held up the bowl, full of yellow strong-smelling cream.

"_Urum_!" he declared. "Clotted reindeer milk. Goes well with bread, like this." A strip of hard bread, stained white, disappeared between his lips. "I would prefer it to go with _dal_, or even curry. Alas!" He brushed the crumbs from his beard. "Lentils don't grow well in snow!"

Anna rested her hands upon the table. The wood was soft and eroded; her palms came away dusted with gritty black soot. Only now, did she notice that a metal mug and wooden plate had already been set for her, weighing down a tattered square of fabric that had been repurposed as a tablecloth.

Somehow, like magic, the table was now crowded with fresh food, from the rations of the warlike people. Herrings lined up on strips of cloth, dusted with herbs. Hard bread, uneven and lumpy, paired with a bowl of something that smelled heavily of cheese. And square chunks of some brown cakes that looked somewhat like brownies. It was close to midnight—ordinarily, Anna would be craving for something sweet to whet the late-night cravings.

Now, her stomach was tight shut. She couldn't even _think _of food.

"It's windy." The bearded man wiped his lips, as he tore off another strip of bread. "We can't have that."

He pounded the table. "_Bambai!_"

The sound of metal upon metal nearly caused Anna to leap out of her seat. In an instant, every warrior encircling them had raised their shield, interlocking into a circular shield wall. A tent of iron, hovering over their meeting place.

"That's better," muttered the leader. He hadn't even looked up.

Anna hadn't missed it. The rigorous discipline, the unquestioning obedience to their leader. The speed at which they had immediately prepared the meeting place, moving around each other with practised ease. The threat of their weapons, and the unnerving silence as they stared her down. Even the food upon the table was a message—_we are not starving slaves. We are well-equipped, well-supplied, and well-prepared._

_A show of strength._

"Your name is Anna, you say?" The steppe nomad pronounced the name twice, slower the second time. He rolled it over his tongue as if the two syllables were remarkably exotic. "I have heard of your father. He is dead, if my sources are to be believed. You are the eldest daughter, then?"

"The youngest, actually." Anna kept her voice steady. Her back straightened, and suddenly a bizarre thought struck her. A memory, of sitting just like that with her back to the window as a girl, while her tutor tutted over her fumbling recital of a passage from the _Edda_.

"_Anna, you must enunciate! Rrrrroll your 'r's and p-p-p-pronounce your consonants! A princess does not say 'hm' or 'uh'!" _Master Heims had straightened his spectacles impatiently. _"You will someday speak with kings and queens, Princess Anna!"_

_Well, Heims, _Anna thought wryly, _you better be proud of me now. I'm speaking to a tribe of killers._

_I haven't stammered._

_Yet._

"The youngest!" The warrior barked his surprise. A muscled hand brushed his beard. "This is odd. I understand that you Northerners pass on your crowns in the order of birth. Is your sister no longer living?"

"My sister was the queen before me." Anna tried to keep still. The old habit of jiggling her foot, under the table, was threatening to rear its head again. She could feel her nerves firing treacherously, and squeezed her thigh to silence the impulse. "Then, Elsa—"

It was all gathered together in that one moment, that breath gathered behind her lips, that Anna felt herself dangle at the edge of a cliff.

_What do they know?_

The warrior had shown that he knew of their land, their customs, and even the royal court. And yet the greatest secret of all, a secret hidden for years and years—until recently—now hung like a sword above her head.

"My sister chose to abdicate, and the crown passed to me. I am now queen of Arendelle," Anna finished with as clear a voice as she could muster.

Anna had taken a gamble, and stepped back from the cliff's edge. An omission of information, not a lie. Her tutor would be proud.

_Conceal, don't feel._

_Put on a show._

_Make one wrong move and he will know._

If the bearded warrior detected any trace of the tension in her answer, he showed none of it. His demeanour was relaxed as he began to tear the bread on his plate to strips, treating the exchange as simple conversation over dinner.

"A crown passing between siblings, in peace!" the man marvelled, as if to himself. "What a strange thing. On the steppes, khans would have thrown entire armies at each other for the right to bear the horse-hair standard. Even my own people, the Kushans, have been fighting for longer than we can remember in the plains of the Deccan, summoned by one _raj _or other to fight against a brother, or cousin, or uncle."

"Arendelle is a peaceful kingdom." Anna's reply was curt. She would not be frightened.

The nomad held a shred of bread up. Irregular, torn, it resembled the shape of some province. "You say that as if it is an advantage." The strip disappeared behind his teeth. "That may be a mistake. Perhaps your last."

Suddenly, his eyes widening, the warrior slammed his fist on the table and Anna bounced upwards for what felt like eight feet.

"Ah, where are my manners!" The warrior thumped his chest. "We must have wine! No, _airag! _Saved for special occasions such as this. Come!"

He raised a finger. And suddenly Anna found herself staring at deep oil-black liquid, disgorging into her cup from a leather skin held in between mailed fingers. The warrior had appeared from behind her, almost completely silent. He made no sound as he poured out the drink; then, his task complete, he shrank back into the darkness.

Anna swallowed.

"Easy there, queen of _Arendelle_." The warrior leaned back, regarding her with a beady stare. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't need poisoned liquor to do it."

His hand was as thick as a brick, as fierce-looking as a butcher's cleaver, as it came down in a chopping movement. "Drink, young queen."

Not a request. A test.

Anna cradled the metal mug. Its sheen was clouded, its edges dented—this was no kitchen ornament, for noblemen's feasts. This was a warrior's cup, a part of a nomad's mess set, made for drinking on the move or even in the saddle. The liquid sloshed, dark and foreboding. Like blood in a chalice.

Her lips clamped gingerly over the edge, and she tipped the mug.

_Ack—_

Anna coughed hard, her throat screaming as fire burned its way down to her stomach. Flecks of dark liquid splattered against the table. Mortified, she lowered the cup quickly and covered her stained lips, dabbing frantically with her sleeve.

"Good!" The warrior barked his approval. "Very brave!"

Anna sputtered away as the fire continued to smoulder in her guts. "Ow—! It's strong!" she found herself blurting out.

The old nomad laughed, thumping the table with the back of his hand. "Strong drink! Not like that thin syrup you Northerners sip at your dinner tables. _Airag_ is a nomad's drink, brewed from reindeer milk and black herbs."

Anna realised that he had a cup of his own, and he drained it in a single gulp. "Mixed with horse's blood, for added strength. In the old days we would have used the blood of prisoners—unfortunately, we tend to take none." A dribble of red snaked down the hairs of his beard.

The dark emulsion swallowed up the light from the torches, like the surface of a swamp bog, and the wetness in her mouth made her toes curl. Anna felt the urge to retch.

"So! We have spoken, and we have shared drink." The warrior spread his arms wide in what was supposed to be a welcoming gesture. As it was, he looked like a stout hawk, spreading its wings before the pounce. "You are now a guest of steppe hospitality, and no harm will come to you or your companions so long as you are at this table."

His large arms fell, and he seized another morsel of bread. "Now, let us be properly introduced once again, Queen Anna of _Arendelle_. I am Huvishka, of the Kushans whose homeland borders that of the Gupta and the _Sveta Huna_. And I am your enemy."

He hadn't hesitated, with that last sentence, hadn't stopped smiling. Hadn't even paused at all as he shoved the bread into his mouth and picked up a smoked herring.

The nomad took his time as he ripped the head from the pathetic carcass, pulling with it a string of blackened innards. Yellowed nails peeled shrunken strips of flesh from the belly of the herring, popping the morsels into his mouth every now and again.

When he had devoured the small herring and cast the bones aside, Huvishka pulled an ornament from around his neck. In the light of many torches, the circular pendant shone with symbols carved into the wood.

"This," Huvishka said, licking his greasy lips, "is a _gereg_. A symbol of the authority granted to me by the _kurultai _of the steppe tribes, to speak for them and to negotiate peace—or war—with whom I wish. This means, my queen, that when you speak to me, you speak to the thousand and ten-thousand nomads who have suffered under King Ruun-ard, your grandfather."

The cold bit at Anna's cheeks and her neck. She didn't dare lift her hands from the table, for fear that they would start shaking uncontrollably. She looked on, silent, listening. Hoping against hope that there was a way out.

"I have suffered, Anna of _Arendelle_, in the work camps of your people. I have bled, and have lost, as have those of my generation. Of the younger ones, not one among them has not known starving nights in the Mist, or lost fingers and toes to frostbite. Not a man or woman has not buried a hearth-friend within the hard ground." Huvishka wiped the grease from his hands upon the ragged cloth. "Believe me when I say that we desire nothing more than your kingdom burned to the ground, and your people piled so high that our horses may ride over their corpses."

"But," the nomad added, as he ripped another piece of bread to shreds, "I will have this to add. An agreement from our _kurultai_, the gathering of our tribes. We wish to seek peace with your kingdom. To offer a chance to save your people from our arrows."

The bread vanished, strip by strip. "You have one chance, Queen of the Northerners. One chance to save your people, to spare them from the wrath we now hold back with great difficulty." A tongue, broad and wet, brushed over the tips of his fingers. "Choose your next words with the greatest care."

Anna blurted out the first thing in her head.

"How are there so many of you?"

Huvishka paused, an _urum-_smeared chunk of bread in his hand. "How—are there so many of us?" His face was blank confusion.

"I read my father's letters! He said that he only managed to find three of you after the Mist fell, found them outside the forest. Said that the rest were lost in the Mist. They had names—" Anna was talking too fast—again. She forced herself to slow down. "He couldn't find anyone else. We thought you were all dead. I came here to try and find you and help you because it's the right thing to do, and you all suffered so much."

The bread almost fell from Huvishka's stained fingers. He seemed at a loss for words.

"I have not heard of any slaves who were outside the forest when the Mist descended," he spoke at last. "As soon as the Dam was built, King Ruun-ard began slaughtering our people."

The statement, delivered so casually, struck Anna like a crossbow bolt. "_What?_"

"We call it The Night of Falling Stones." Huvishka massacred the morsel of bread, and then it was gone. "Ruun-ard lashed stones to the builders who had worked on the Dam, and had them thrown from it into the gorge below."

The queen of Arendelle clapped a hand over her mouth. "That's—terrible—"

"We had become unruly. More than a few guards had been found dead during the Dam's destruction, under suspicious circumstances. Once the Dam was finished, keeping us around was more trouble than it was worth." The Kushan nomad sucked on a fingertip. "The last I heard was that he was planning a meeting with the Northuldra to kill their leader and take their lands."

"He did. He tried—and then he died. And the angry spirits brought the Mist because of it." Anna lowered her hand. "And for what he did, to you, to everyone, I'm sorry. I had no idea, I'm really, really—"

"You say that some survived outside the Mist?" Huvishka moved on, as if Anna hadn't spoken. "This is unknown to my people. Tell me more, please." He made a gesture, and again the warrior reappeared from the dark like a shadow. His cup was refilled, then a tiny dollop topped up her own almost-full cup, before the man slinked back into the night.

Anna was coming to realise that the nomad was not acting on whimsy or eccentricity. Everything had been planned. The corridor of armoured warriors, and the palisade of raised shields, funnelled the light of the campfire into a shifting, dizzying beam that illuminated Huvishka and nothing else. With her eyes adjusted to the light, the night around them seemed all-consuming. Anna was surrounded on all sides by warriors she could not even see.

_Intimidation._

"Only three of them. Nobody else. At least, that's what my father wrote. He's dead now; lost at sea." Anna wouldn't be frightened. She _wouldn't._ "But my father used the same name for three of them. Ming Han. Maybe they were triplets? Like, Ming Han the first, the second, the third?"

Huvishka's cup paused on its way to his lips. As he set it back down, the wine undrunk, the firelight danced in his eyes like embers. He leaned forward.

"On the eternal sky, swear that what you tell me is true." There was no mirth in his voice.

"I—I swear it." Anna straightened up. "My father would never lie. Not in his letters, not in person, not _ever_." She sensed something, her heart quickened. "Is this someone you care about? One of them? This Ming Han?" It was almost a whisper. "_Is she—your wife?_"

Huvishka stared back, silent for a while. Then he leaned his head back, as he made a gesture. The dark shape of the warrior reappeared, the gleam of his helmet winking from the darkness as he bent his head forward. Whispered words were exchanged, in a language Anna couldn't understand—and then he was gone, and Huvishka looked ahead at Anna.

"It is not a name, queen of _Arendelle_." He sipped from his cup. "In the Mongolic language, it is a number. _Mingghan _means one thousand."

Anna couldn't stop her mouth from falling open. "My father rescued _three thousand slaves_?"

"Where are they now? These children of the steppes?" Huvishka gave no time for Anna to collect her thoughts. "You will tell me."

"He didn't say," Anna replied, stammering. "He—he only said that he met them and rescued them, and handed over their care to someone he trusted." It was at the very last moment that she bit back the name of _Jaska Tamminen_. The day had already been full of surprises, and she was afraid of saying something she shouldn't have.

_I don't know what this man knows._

"Had them killed, more like." The Kushan reached for one of the brownish cakes. "Horses give birth to horses, and sheep to sheep. The son of a murderer and tyrant would be the same as the father."

"No!" Anna's hand had hit the table before she could stop herself. The words tumbled out. "My father was King Agnarr of Arendelle. He was kind and he was noble, and I'm sure that he did his best to save your people!"

"We are not these slaves." The nomad chewed on the cake, and then it was gone. "We were not saved by any other than the strength of our own arms. I do not believe your story, Anna of the Northerners. It smells to me of that unmanly deception you Europeans seem so proficient at."

"It's the truth!"

Huvishka only grunted.

Her blood was up. Anna was on fire. "Runeard was a terrible man, but you were not the only people he hurt. He took away the lands of the Northuldra and forced them from their homes. I'm here to help make things right! So stop talking to me like I'm some _enemy_, and tell me how to help you!"

"You _are _an enemy, Queen Anna." Huvishka looked like someone annoyed by the task of having to tell a child that the sky was blue. "Are we dogs or beggars, to look for scraps beneath your table?"

"That's not what I meant!" Anna almost stood up, and only the discomfort of the table's low height stopped her knees from straightening. "I want to make things right. I want to pay for the sins of my grandfather against your people."

She knew the word. _Reparations. _She wasn't sure if using it would offend the warlord by its foreignness, or risk sounding condescending by explaining it. It wasn't something to take lightly. It had taken an entire week of arguing with the council and many sleepless nights in the study before she had wrangled an agreement for reparations to the Northuldra.

She didn't want to think about what it would cost _now_. Especially since such a secret had the potential to destroy the people's faith in her own family.

"Pay. An interesting word." Huvishka didn't look at her, only at the cup of spiced _airag_. He drained it in a single gulp, his cheeks beginning to glow red.

"Our eyes have been upon your kingdom, young queen." The empty cup was held out, and then refilled. "Your fields are fertile and lush. Your waters churn with fish. Your storehouses are filled to bursting."

"I will name the price of your peace." Huvishka hooked his finger once more on the woven string around his _gereg_. "One quarter."

He let the words hang without explanation. Anna simply looked on, waited. Her palms had begun to sweat.

Then he spoke again. "A quarter of your gold and silver, a quarter of your iron and your steel. A quarter of your grain and meat and fish, your furs, your salt, your oil, your leather." He leaned forward, a finger at the edge of his mouth. "That is our tribute, to be paid every year before the first day of winter."

"We will allow you to keep your toys of metal and the trinkets you peddle at your marketplaces. We desire only good and strong things valued by warriors." Huvishka picked at a strip of pink flesh trapped between his teeth. "Do not think to squirrel away what is owed us. The eyes of the wolf see far. Your tribute will be counted."

A bead of sweat was making its way down her temple, despite the cold. Anna kept her game face on, but if it was possible to sweat _inside _her head, she would be pouring rivers. One quarter would cripple Arendelle. Trade would simply wither away, and entire industries would turn unsustainable. Worse still, the man had used an ugly word—_tribute. _A payment as an apologetic gesture for past wrongs was one thing. This was the queen of Arendelle being extorted by a hostile invading force into bending the knee, in spirit if not in deed.

He was not speaking idly. Anna could see that. Every aspect of his demand had been carefully weighed. Had he asked for tribute at the beginning of spring, Arendelle could conceivably pay the tribute from whatever remained of their winter stockpile after the people had been fed. By asking for it _before _winter, it became clear that it was not only to feed the invaders—it was to hurt Arendelle. A quarter, paid out of their supplies and harvests, would be a gaping wound carved out of their heart. They would from then on be on the knife-edge of austerity: rising taxes, ration cards, food lines, stores boarded up, dark nights without oil for lanterns. Squads of royal tax collectors. Malcontent. Food riots.

Her next words would be important. Her face settled as the queenly veneer descended; she could never be as poised and composed as Elsa. Nobody could. But she could get as close as she was able to.

"That is an extreme sum, Lord Huvishka—"

He cut her off. "I am not nobility. Spare me."

Already he had swung a blow to unbalance her. But Anna continued, pacing herself with each word. "It is an extreme demand. Arendelle may be able to afford it for a year, maybe two. But how much longer after that?"

She remembered the old tricks, and Master Heims' reedy voice. _Pause if you must, instead of filling the space with hesitant sounds. And do not speak faster than you can think. When one word leaves your lips, the next five must be already formed in your mind._

"We are willing to compensate you of course, for the wrongs you have suffered. That has always been my intention." Anna folded her hands together, unconsciously assuming the regal posture of her sister. _Damn it, I hate this way of talking! _"But there are limits to what we can provide. I hope we can come to a compromise."

She thought of challenging the notion that his army was strong enough to come against Arendelle's walls. At the last minute, she thought better of it. It would only draw attention to the fact that he had Arendelle's sovereign ruler—literally—within arm's reach. She had no idea how many there were, only the assurance that they would always be camped outside Arendelle, embedding themselves into the land. Anna could be making a decision that would endure long after she was dead.

Anna leaned forward. "What about one-tenth?"

Huvishka glared at her. Eyes like burning coals bore into her own, and she fought the urge to look away.

And then, unexpectedly, his lips spread in a grin.

"Good, good!" He adjusted his seat. "I was worried that you would not recognise the game! Still, you are a poor haggler. Let me guess, you've never bought anything from the markets? Or the stalls? You've always had servants to do that for you, yes?"

The barb stung, though not much. "I've visited the stores in Arendelle many times," Anna replied. "And I always pay what they ask for. Our prices are fair."

Huvishka shook his head. "If you pay what they ask for, and no less, you've missed the whole point of the game, Anna. What good is buying and selling, if not for bargaining and negotiation? Where comes the fun of giving up without a fight? A bargain is a living creature; it needs to be wrestled to the ground." As if to emphasise his point, he wrung an invisible critter between his massive hands as if breaking its neck. "It is one of the great joys of life. I have missed it!"

He gulped down the cup of _airag_. Anna was already feeling lightheaded from one sip of the searing liquid, and the nomad didn't even slur his words. "Your counter-offer is a poor one. One-tenth—_pfft! _I would be insulted. One-fifth and no less."

She forced her hands to relax; she was gripping the table so hard her knuckles were turning pale. Already her mind was reeling with the thought that the livelihoods of thousands depended on her—not just within the walls of her kingdom, but for the farmers and herders living under the Arenlaw. "Shall we say one-eighth?"

Huvishka grunted, but did not retort with an insult. "You Northerners are miserly. I accept one-eighth of your food and goods. The quarter of your gold and silver still stands. That will be paid to us."

The young queen frowned. "Why? Why would you want gold and silver? You told me that you need things that are useful to you. It's not like you can _eat _gold coins—"

"I am not a fool, Anna. Think." Huvishka stared at the empty bottom of his cup, as if pondering a refill.

She did. Her mind whirled, like a bird seeking refuge from the cold. And then, slowly, the thread emerged. As she pulled at it, it unravelled and suddenly Anna understood.

"You don't need gold or silver," she said in a small voice. "_We _do. If our harvests are bad, or our supplies are not enough, we'll need to buy from other kingdoms. If our funds are low—" Anna finished the thread. "We won't be able to hire mercenaries. Or pay other kingdoms for their help."

The knowledge brought a burning bitterness. "You're trying to make sure that you'll always be a threat to us."

For a second, she thought she saw approval in Huvishka's eyes. Then his face grew cold again.

Anna's head felt heavy, and the nod she gave was less a conscious movement, and more of her giving in to the exhausting effort of holding her head up.

She had spent evenings with Elsa talking over in the study, poring over letters as they struggled to piece together a coherent picture of the slaves who had suffered under their grandfather. They had been planning a way to help them. _Planning_, Anna thought bitterly, when in truth they were play-acting with ideas instead of dolls and toys. They imagined starving slaves huddled together and weeping in the cold of the forest, like freezing puppies. They had forgotten that puppies grew into wolves.

"_I'll make sure they know they're safe. And that they don't need to be afraid anymore," _Anna had said, as her sister took her hand.

Now, the words that once seemed warm, sounded in her ears like mocking laughter.

_Do they look afraid to you?_

A sound like thunder broke through Anna's thoughts. Huvishka's hand had slapped the table again, like a judge's gavel.

"It is done. I accept these terms." He had pulled another herring from the pile and was starting to dissect it. "There is no more to say. Except that your kingdom will have peace, so long as you kept us fed."

Anna slumped. She could barely hold herself up—the tension had been so unbearable she might as well have been stretched out on a rack. The cold had been yapping away at her skin, and now that she sensed the danger retreating, her stomach growled. She wondered if the smoked herrings were as good as they smelled.

Now the dread. The journey home, the discussion with the council. The shouts, the protests, the arguments and counter-arguments, the _headache_. Anna's hands had almost reached up to grip her scalp, when the nomad spoke again.

"One other thing." Huvishka held up a finger, as a herring's head hung from his teeth. His tongue swept it up in the next instant. "I will allow you to leave this place. With your lover—" he looked at the tall blond "—and your reindeer. You have my promise."

He paused as he devoured the rest of the fish. He was in no hurry.

"You will leave the _svart _with me. Mattias stays." The nomad wiped his lips. "I have unfinished business with him."

Anna's eyes widened. "No—"

"I will need assurances of your promise. You Europeans are a cowardly and unreliable breed, and I am sick of Northern treachery for one lifetime. Ordinarily, we would demand dozens of hostages to live among our tribe to prevent betrayal." The Kushan brushed the crumbs from his beard. "I am in a charitable mood. I will only demand one."

Anna knew what was coming before it was said.

"Your sister."

She had risen to her feet, surprising even herself with her speed. "_No_." It came out like a hiss. "Never."

The nomad regarded her coolly. "She is the sister to the queen. She will live in safety and honour, with her own _ger _and our people to tend to her needs. I myself will oversee her wellbeing. No man will be permitted to touch her at the cost of his own right arm. But _she will come_."

The bright and almost whimsical tone was gone from his voice. Now came the iron and the cold face he had shown to Mattias before the killing blow. "I will brook no protests. I will accept no substitutes. If you attempt to send another girl to us, clothed and disguised like your sister, I will return her severed head to your kingdom along with three _mingghans _of the Black Talon."

Anna was shaking her head. "_No. _Forget it." Her eyebrows were drawn together on a furrowed brow, almost touching. "I will not let you have Elsa!"

"I will waive your tribute of gold and silver. The sister of the queen is enough."

"_No._" Anna was shaking. But she refused to lower her voice.

"I agree to your earliest offer. One-tenth of your food and goods. At the beginning of spring, not of winter." Huvishka's teeth were showing.

"_No!_"

"No." The Kushan repeated. It had become obvious that his counter-offer had never been serious. "Not even to save your people from starvation? Not even to bolster your kingdom from ruin?"

"That's not what I mean!" Anna snapped. "You expect me to hand over my sister to _you_? You threaten us and talk about destroying Arendelle! You shake weapons at us and you almost killed Mattias! She will _never _go with you!"

"So you consider her life more important than all those who depend on you as queen?" Huvishka licked his lips. "I have never laid eyes on her. But she must be as beautiful as a goddess. I can see she is precious, to you, if not to your kingdom." He was smiling. "And because of her, you are willing to let children become orphans. You would give up homes to become cinders, fields to become barren plains. You would give up a hundred and a thousand, ten thousand of your own people. But not your sister. _No_, not her."

The smile vanished, replaced by a look of withering contempt. "Do not think I am ignorant of your history. You think of royal blood and fine lineages, you love your carpeted castles and your festivals and think you deserve it all. You consider a drop of your own blood more precious than an ocean of your people's."

The sound of cracking metal made Anna wince, even as her face turned pale. Huvishka had swept away the metal cup with a single blow so quick she couldn't see it, only hear as the cup smashed against a shield and was destroyed. There was no doubt about the power of his sword arm.

"Your ancestors were warlords, who expected a hard life and nothing less. They considered their blood precious only if it was shed, and measured their legacies by the length of their swords. They knew kingdoms were forged in blood and iron, not paper and velvet. They wore helmets, not crowns; they sat in saddles, not thrones. Across the gulf of time, I have no doubt that the Vikings and we people of the steppes would have been brothers, dividing the world between us; with them ruling a sea of water, and we a sea of grass."

The game was over, and the Kushan bared his cold face—the iron mask that showed no emotion and betrayed only disdain. "I would have honoured these Vikings, shared _airag _with them. I _spit _on their children."

"This is my last offer, Queen of _Arendelle_." Huvishka's eyes were murderous. Around Anna, the wall of ironclad warriors felt like a prison. "Your sister. Or the Black Talon goes on the march tonight."

"It won't happen. I'll never give up Elsa." Anna gritted her teeth, as she stepped away from the table. She was going to be sick. This was all a game to that—that _brute—_and none of his promises were true. He had been toying with her. "You're sick, _sick_—and if you want to get Elsa, you might as well kill me first."

It had sounded brave, and remarkably touching, in her hand. As the words echoed against the walls of armour, Anna once again realised that she had spoken faster than she thought.

"I promised that no harm would come to you and your companions so long as you are at my table, Queen Anna." Huvishka stood up. And now she realised the fearsome _khanda _had been across his knees all the while. All those cups of liquor—the nomad wasn't even swaying.

With a jerk of his arm—his _left _arm—the table flipped aside, the wood crashing into splinters upon the ground in a splatter of herrings, bread, and spilled cream.

He eyed the distance between them. "You are not at the table anymore, young queen."

A heavy boot thudded in the snow, as the bearded warrior swung the _khanda _upwards and gripped its formidable handle with both hands. Barely eight feet separated Anna from the terrifying figure, all pretence of goodwill gone, and she hastened to widen the gap. Then her shoulder bumped against the scaled breastplate of a steppe soldier, and she jerked away. To her left and right, the walls of silent armoured warriors remained steadfast.

They would not move, not without a command from their leader. And he wanted the young queen for himself.

It was when Huvishka took his first steps towards her that a voice called out in the night, giving pause to even the warrior.

Anna jerked like a fish on a hook, her head thumping with panic. She had expected Kristoff's voice, calling out alarm. She had even expected Mattias' raspy baritone shouting some sort of defiance.

* * *

"_Yoo hoo! Queen Anna!_"

She turned slowly, disbelieving. Of all the people who would come, of all those who would find her here—

Oaken strode through the thick snow, his striped sweater dotted with splashes of moisture. "Queen Anna! It's me, _ja_! Are you there? You have been gone a long time, _yoo!_"

A beefy hand twiddled fingers in the air as he called out again. "Terribly sorry Queen Anna! But you have not yet paid for your chocolate. Really sorry but we do not have store credit, _ja_?"

The storekeeper walked closer, his great bulk seeming almost comical as he tittered with elbows pressed against his side, his fingertips pressed together. "Would kindly appreciate if you could settle the bill. _Yoo hoo! _Are you there?"

_Wait, I'm sure I paid! I always pay before food, not after! _The bizarre thought smacked Anna in her head and she almost laughed. At the very edge of danger with her life in the balance, this was what her brain chose to focus on.

Anna chanced a swivel of her hand. Behind her, Huvishka stared at the approaching man like a deer blinded by the lantern on a cart. His grip on the _khanda _had even gone slack.

"Oh. _Ooh_." Oaken seemed to notice the gathered warriors by his doorstep for the first time. "Oh dear me, so many guests. Queen Anna, you know these men? This is very irregular. You need food, _ja_? Chocolate? New supplies? Not sure if supplies are enough in the shop. So many!"

The shopkeeper frowned, but didn't break his step. Iron masks turned slowly as he walked by, none of the warriors speaking or moving. He was like an object of sheer confusion, a puzzle that brought the entire world to a screeching halt.

"What in _Erlik_'s name is this?" Anna heard Huvishka hiss.

The queen turned back. Sweat clung to the tip of her nose, dripping onto the edge of her dry lips.

"Please," she whispered, hoping Huvishka could somehow hear her. "Please don't hurt him. Please let him go. He's harmless—please—"

"_Oh no_!" Oaken seemed to leap back in alarm, at the fire-pit mere feet away from Anna. The warrior stoking the coals with his sleek horseman's pick paused in his task, perplexed eyes following the strange man. The shopkeeper danced on his feet, hands drawn up to his chest in exaggerated astonishment.

The shopkeeper strode over to the warrior, tapping him on the shoulder. "_Yoo hoo! _Really sorry, _ja_, but this is private land and unauthorized burning is not allowed! Hazard risk, you understand. I could be fined by the forest commission!"

The warrior shrugged off Oaken's touch as if it were the buzzing of a fly, but made no hostile movement. He simply stared, still caught up in complete surprise as the shopkeeper towered over him, nearly swallowing up the steppe soldier's wiry frame. Oaken began kicking up snow into the fire-pit.

"Piss off, you fool," the young warrior snarled in Chuvash, but looked to Huvishka with a silent request for orders. Madmen and fools were ill omens; there had been old stories of wandering babblers being evil spirits disguised to fool men into striking them in anger. He did not want to be the first to act.

"Must put it out! Safety first, _ja_?" Oaken's tone was cheery. The large man was walking straight into a hornet's nest and teasing the hornets with his own face. Anna felt her stomach sink with dread. There was no telling what Huvishka—or his warriors—would do.

"Please," she whispered across her shoulder, "please—he's innocent."

"Come, come!" Oaken had grabbed the warrior's weapon before the man could react. The warrior cried out, startled, but a powerful hand upon his shoulder pressed down in a calming gesture. "I show you how to put it out! See?" He waggled the horseman's pick as if it were just a walking stick.

"You just dig out the coals and scatter them! Dig out, like this!" Oaken pushed through the mass of burning coals, the metal of the light war-hammer beginning to glow. "See? You just dig, like—"

Oaken ripped the pick out of the pit in a sweeping, upward motion, scattering a shower of white-hot embers into the warrior's face. A scream reverberated into the night, as the steppe soldier stumbled backwards, clutching his eyes.

The horseman's pick was high in the air, poised with its deadly head incandescent with heat. And then like a bright meteor, the war-hammer slammed into the man's exposed face.

Fingers shattered, bone crumpled, and blood bubbled from the ruins of a skull, the frontal bones demolished in an instant. The warrior's scream ceased as he went limp, nearly sinking to his knees. With a ferocious backswing, Oaken jerked the hammer free, tearing forth a spray of blood, bone, and brain.

A single eyeball tumbled onto the snow, right by Anna's feet, and she felt the ground lurch beneath her.

It happened in an instant. Oaken flung his arm back, the horseman's pick held in the grip of his powerful muscles like a throwing axe. Anna stared, in that second stretching into infinity, at a complete stranger. The affable grin, the rosy cheeks, the preening timidity of a gentle spirit in a massive body—all gone. His eyes had become dark pools aflame with liquid fire, and Anna felt his gaze over her shoulder at the steppe warrior just behind.

Then his arm exploded outwards, and the war-hammer vanished.

Anna's hair whipped against her face as a high-pitched whistle stung her ears, her head jerking to the side.

The pick ripped through the air like a scythe, and impaled Huvishka dead in the centre of his chest. The deafening sound was like the crashing of cymbals, as dozens of individual scales burst from their seams.

Her wide eyes stared as Huvishka fell backwards, thrown by the terrible force of the blow, the _khanda _clattering into the snow.

"Anna," Oaken spoke, and it was not a voice she had heard before. "Run."

She could barely hear him. She was underwater. Her ears felt full and her head heavy, dizzy even as the rising shouts and the chiming of metal scales broke out around her. They were as muffled as the sound of a storm filtered through cotton wool stuffed in her ears.

Without warning, Oaken plunged his hand into the snow. Still in that dream-haze of hyper-acuity, all her senses sharpened till they _hurt _against her brain, Anna saw as his massive hand resurfaced gripping the end of a knotted rope.

He pulled.

And then the world exploded.

Light seared her eyes, sound was drowned out by a high-pitched whine as she felt her knees give way. Anna shook her head, trying to struggle free from the constant buzzing that sounded like unending screams. Then her world cleared, and she realised that she _was _hearing screams.

The forest was on fire. No—the _mountain_. Plumes of pure light rocketed heavenward, spilling showers of azure blue and deep red, tearing upwards with hisses before bursting in shockwaves that turned her ears to mush. Anna stumbled, crawled, pushed herself up, even as the explosions continued, tearing through the ranks of the gathered warriors. She dragged each foot behind her like a drunkard, as each shock threatened to knock her down again, as death rained down around her. The ground felt dim under her feet, the cold like a distant mutter; she was a puppet on loose strings, moving jerkily and unevenly, as her world collapsed around her.

A dark shaped thudded into the ground to the edge of her vision. She turned, and saw a human arm clad in charred mail, trailing a shattered handle of bone.

Then fear filled her heart like water into a pitcher, and Anna found her strength again.

"Anna!" Oaken roared. "_Run!_"

And she ran.

* * *

"Kristoff!" Oaken bellowed, his voice rid of the quaint lilt of his accent. Now it was nothing but steel. "Up, and back to the shop!"

Kristoff had reacted quickly. With the sharpened reflexes of a mountaineer trained to recognise the jitters of an avalanche long before the first rumble came, he had upended the sled over himself and Mattias as soon as the explosions started. Sven had pranced away, but now huffed and brayed in panic from a distance away.

"It's Mattias!" Kristoff called back. His arm gripped obstinately around the lieutenant's waist, leveraging his strength against gravity. It was no use. "He's hurt, bad!"

"There's no time!" Oaken called back. Kristoff saw him stride back into the veil of flaming light and bursting colour—and then re-emerge, carrying Anna under his arm with absolutely no effort at all.

"Anna!" Kristoff cried desperately. Her eyes were unfocused, her expression still blank in shock.

"Kristoff. Leave me." The lieutenant's words came through teeth clenched in pain. "Go. Now."

"Mattias!" The mountaineer gave another tug, and the lieutenant's body lurched in the snow again. It was useless. "He can't move! I think he's paralysed!"

Mattias gathered his breath, his chest swelling as he readied perhaps the last words he would ever speak.

"_Oaken!_" It was a clarion call, made even more piercing by the agony in his voice. "Take them away! Get them to safety! _Protect the queen!_"

The shopkeeper turned, his great ginger moustache bristling, his lips thin. A look passed between them, and nothing more needed to be said. Oaken nodded.

"Up, Bjorgman!" Oaken roared, pulling Kristoff from the lieutenant's fallen body. "Get up, to the shop! You're no good to us dead!"

Anna's lips moved, even as she muttered something inaudible. Her eyes flitted to Mattias, her tears flowing freely. She kicked her legs in feeble protest, but Oaken's grip was iron.

Kristoff's eyes were heavy in sorrow, his legs like leaden weights. He stumbled as Sven's snout knocked him in the chest, his hair ruffling as the reindeer barked in a wordless plea to flee. His eyes never left Mattias, until the moment when he turned his head and began to run.

Only then did Mattias let his head fall back, turning his face to the snow-dotted sky as the fireworks blazed around him, smiling as the colours painted his vision in glory. It wasn't a bad way to die. Not at all.

* * *

Light and sound and fury filled the world with smoke, and yet the world did not exist. Not for Huvishka, for his existence had narrowed down only to pain. All-consuming pain, exploding forth in each breath, like ripples from a pond. He gripped the horseman's pick with both hands, and steadied his breathing. Loose scales, wet with blood, fluttered like mah-jong tiles within the hollow of his chest. As the handle dipped ever so slightly, pulled downward by gravity, a fresh surge of agony threatened to send him into unconsciousness.

The breast-plate had been forged by the legendary Xiongnu, whose craftsmanship had no equal, and their skill had saved him. The scales of crucible-steel had stopped the head of the hammer from killing him outright, yet he was not out of danger yet. The weapon might have buried itself in an artery, or hooked on the lining of a lung. If that were true, pulling the weapon out would be his last conscious act before death overtook him in the span of a single breath.

Huvishka faced that fact and found that he did not care. A Kushan did not die on the ground, bleeding like a stuck pig.

He steadied himself, made a prayer to Mahakali, and ripped out the war-hammer.

His mouth gaped open, his throat rattling silently in wordless excruciating suffering as pain flooded his body like a monsoon into the Indus. But the cold clutches of death did not come. He was alive. The weapon had destroyed his armour, and shattered a rib. But he was alive.

"_Noyan _Huvishka!" A young voice cried out. Through the blurred veil of pain, Huvishka could make out the sharp features of Ernac. The _zuun-i-noyan—_commander of a hundred—had brought his _zuun _of heavy infantry as Huvishka's personal guard on this incursion into the North Mountain. Now, the young steppe warrior knelt by his general. "You are badly wounded! We must fetch you back to camp!"

Huvishka threw out his sword arm, and the younger warrior understood. "Our troops—" rasped the Kushan.

"They're taking heavy losses, _noyan_." Ernac flinched as another explosion rocked the mountain. "Some form of Northern devilry—we must move!"

"No." With a massive effort, straining against pain, Huvishka rose unsteadily to his feet. "Gather what remains of your _zuun_. We give chase."

His finger pointed at the figures vanishing over the curve of the mountain path, dipping out of sight. "That is the queen of the Northern bastards. We could end the war here—before it even begins."

He gripped the _khanda, _pulling it free from its shroud of darkened blood-stained snow. "We kill her here. Even if all of us fall, even we are torn apart—we kill her here."

Ernac was silent. Then, he nodded. "I will. My _zuun _will follow you—even into death."

The Kushan strode forward, unsteady at first as fresh blood dripped into the snow, painting a scarlet trail. Then, his feet regaining their strength, he moved faster, and faster again, until Huvishka had broken into a run. The pain on his chest was like a white-hot brand, scorching him with each breath and each footfall, and yet he barely felt it. Not now. Not while victory was within his reach.

Behind, the heavy infantry of the Black Talon thundered forward.


End file.
